(I, Claude Monet at the Tivoli)

Naturally, we go to an art house.
Monet remembers the first movies
by the Lumière brothers. I assure
him his art will be shown in full color.

It’s almost dark, nearly quiet
fifteen minutes before the show.
Few couples chat, preferring to sit
side-by-side staring at their private
mini-screens. No one notices Monet.

He jiggles my seat, nervous 
without a smoke. Mon dieu! he says. 
Relax, you’ll be great, I promise. 
Pffew! he adds. I despise the opinions 
of the press and the so-called critics. 
I tell him he coined the motto of our times.

A loud ringtone at the end of our aisle 
makes him jump. Sacré bleu! he explodes.
When a woman’s voice over speaker phone
tells us she’s had an upsetting day,
Claude leaps to his feet. 

I tug hard on his famous tweed jacket,
make him sit. We’re both relieved 
when Bergman’s Death appears 
on screen in his black cloak, warning us 
to turn off cell phones.

A few minutes into the film, Claude
pulls out his handkerchief. It’s him, 
all him in his own words, voiced 
by an actor who gradually shifts his voice 
to the crackle of an old man. I don’t sound 
that old, Claude grumbles.

First we see the caricatures he was
selling at age fifteen when he met Boudin. 
He watched the well-known painter
at work, capturing the dazzling sunlight 
on women with parasols and frothy dresses 
enjoying a day at the beach. 

Magnifique, Claude whispers. 
Remembering the man who inspired him 
to paint outdoors for the rest of his life, 
he wipes his eyes.

I glance out the second-story window,
checking autumn’s progress. Just patches of
red and gold, but what’s this? Spring?

A vine cascades over the back fence, laden
with pale pink saucers as large as magnolia 
blossoms. I stare as the blooms stretch
toward me.

A strange sound, like sucking through a straw.
Two flowers peer in my window. Not pink, 
but pale flesh pricked with carmen.

Now the lawn disappears under drifts 
of blush, the sickly smell of carrion. I rush 
downstairs, can’t see out windows – run 
to the door. It won’t budge.

Call 911. All lines busy. After ten minutes,
a dispatcher answers, Sorry, Ma’am. 
All patrol cars stopped dead — I imagine
vines binding their axles, smothering 
their windshields.

We’re all trapped, too.
                        

“Black cows wheeling overhead”
make me wonder why?
Returning to the constellation Taurus?
Fed up with the same patch of pasture?
Too bad those cows don’t have lanterns 
to flit about with the fireflies.

I should stop staring up
with my mouth open. 

Still, I can’t resist pondering why?
and even why not? Such mysteries 
are common, thanks to Myopia, 
my muse.