poem

 Modern Art

But what does it do? 

Someone inevitably asks

Just before it goes to the gentleman

In the back who bids $20 million

For the right to hang it in the arcade 

Wing of his cottage in the Hamptons

To be gazed upon by jealous

Guests while the host mixes

Another round of Sismith martinis  

And regales them with condescending 

Anecdotes about the ruined artist.

That’s what it will do—

Become a transient talking piece, a useful distraction,

A signifier of relative affluence

A tool to drive between 

A rival’s ribs

And then sold for a tidy profit

But by then it’s no longer art

Not like the day it was created

All raw and tender and beautifully useless.

12/27/25