MoMA (poem)

Curly hair, twisted and twirled
Mesmerizing vines of brown
Reaching up
Up towards the painted green helicopter
In the MoMA

And on the second floor I stare
At trashy props from Godot
A grown-up's tricycle
Garbage worn and rust collected
A sand-colored stool steering wheel

Uninspiring
But, if you explain Descartes I will listen
The first time in a year my interest wasn't forced

Then a distraction
A drawing of a shadowy hand
Your impulse to mimic
You take your slender fingers
Unlike mine
Short-nailed left
Callus adorned tips
Just like mine
You gave up
"Impossible," you said
And up until then I thought so too