We had been warned about the Monet

by the sandy, yet soft, voice in the foyer

who warned us that we did not have enough

time to appreciate any one of the works

these masters had swallowed years with,

with the lingering hour before 

the halls darkened for another storm-kissed night.

Maybe I uncovered my own oversight

at not thinking that I could find

a Monet, a Manet, a Seurat, or a Pissaro

within the bounds of the city

where boundaries and states lose distinction

somewhere between flatness and grass.

Seeing a Van Gogh mixed in with the rest

convinced me even more 

that some unexpected places and some expected times

align enough to accentuate in relief

what hangs in front of me for days and days,

even if only for two weeks a year.

We may not ask to find 

the works of art 

museums allow us to see on display;

the same could be said 

for the people we find ourselves with,

beautiful Americans from everywhere and nowhere

creating a life more color than water,

yet I enjoy their stories far more

than my own landscape lost

among dozens of the same sort of satisfying strife.