People like to think that I was frustrated. . . .
- Rose Wylie
Hickory, dickory, Doc Martens . . . evidently . . .
and then some . . . a full tank of gas . . . is not enough . . .
is never enough . . .
I celebrate my selfie, and sing my selfie . . .
as if bygones were . . .
while the looney tunes in the loony bin
soundtrack an unexpected darling of the art world . . .
glaring from beneath her pewter-gray bob . . .
seeded with happenstance . . .
nomenclature . . . a loose cannon . . . or canon . . .
wrinkling the thinking of those in the know . . .
Stop a moment . . .
and take issue with the troublesome minions . . .
especially now in the aftermath of an opening . . .
Disneyfying Dickinson . . .
Of course, you saw them . . . we all did . . .
so please drop (stop?) that line of questioning
before you're benched . . . two minutes on the clock . . .
with Klee, Taking a line for a walk . . .
The afternoon cometh . . . stalked by flurries . . .
It's not yet time to count sheep . . .
with a Hey, diddle, diddle, . . .
and free passes to the Auto Show . . .
And now you . . . with your camera . . .
memorializing moments for eternity's collage
awaiting the green light . . .
the steam train chuffing out of the station . . .
your unexpurgated memoirs . . . in tow . . .
through the woods . . . to grandmother's house . . .
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| Rose Wylie |