Small stone 1-11-12

Shuffling from painting to painting
earphones telling me about the master
my eyes trying to absorb the words become oil
I wait to be moved by “Lucretia,”
her white tunic stained with blood
brought forth by her own hand
a dagger to the heart
(this is family honor?)
but I am distracted by smells
musty moth balls reach my nostrils
from a man at my right
his sky-blue jacket giving off a closet’s perfume
an odor that matches the art’s browns and grays
then a woman brushes past
radiating Clinique’s pungent Aromatics Elixir
patchouli on steroids
another woman more subtly
leaves the air of sweet chai tea in her wake
the aroma of beauty

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