Wasp on a Madrid Tour Bus
Through
each force and bend, a wasp kept herself
rigid,
perched on top of a windowless view. She
fluttered
and bobbed as the bus picked up speed,
hanging
on with such panache, as if giving that
look
of a swan afloat. In Puerta de Sol, she looked
out
on the statues of men, mimics in Pompeii mud.
Further
along and still clinging, her tiny image a
spectre
in the artistic scene, we passed del Prado
Museum
with Hieronymus Bosch; Rubens' women
lounging
in naked sangfroid, Goya's two hounds
chained
at the hunt. Then for some reason wasp
sleeked
her wings, left suddenly within the soft
seize
of breeze, as if the day was a queue
thrusting
through it. The Reiner Sofia exhibited
the
genius of men, each countryman knowing the
other, Mirό's Self-Portrait II to Picasso's Guernica.
other, Mirό's Self-Portrait II to Picasso's Guernica.
And not
quite visible, there on an outer wall, wasp
still clinging
to a glassed-in lift – a small genius.
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