Hungover in a museum 

I struggled to read
the self important words
of artists that thought themselves 
poets and wordsmiths

reaching into nothing 
trying to stitch meaning
through the sterile displays 

after drinking with 
Foreigners
seeing the palaces of 
Kings
enjoying the beauty of 
Music 

these pompous halls
held nothing for me

with no one 
to impress
I turned to return 
to the colorful streets
of the city

to a rooftop, to 
Job 
who showed me the world 
Paolo
who taught me kinship
Brenda 
who reminded me of love

museum halls
are fine 
for dying
pictures and paintings 

but life 
is for sharing 
of the beauty 
of every
day 
and every 
connection.