I Choose

Finally, having found the treasure

of a parking spot at the Memorial

Art Gallery remote lot, I walk

across the front of the grand

old building, past the metal

sculpted penguins, the shiny silver

cubes, the abstract dancers, through

the tall glass doors, past the indoor

sunken sculpture garden, then up

the stairs to a third floor office. I

stand amidst a small collection of

prints, available only to patrons,

in return for their past support. 

From the vast array of artists

(whose various styles hint at

the gallery’s collection), I get to

choose one piece.  Why do I almost

never choose nature, and almost

always choose faces?  I browse

and peruse, over and over—

then choose this odd jester or

clown, depicted neither happy

nor sad—but strikingly neutral,

calm, open, and masculine, for 
a change.  The clerk packs my

print in a large hard envelope

and nods me a kind dismissal.

One second out the door, I pass

in the hall an uncanny female version

of the joker in my print.  She, in her

puffed polka dot outfit, looks me straight

in the eyes, pauses, as if to ask, why him--

then disappears to my right.