POEM

I read this poem last night which I found revealing and true. It struck a chord with me because I have seen this first hand.


The party hoppers wolfing down the wine and cheese
without a glance at what might be considered art 
At all those Thursday evening openings in San Francisco galleries
And the critics and the crickets and the singles out to score
And the docents of the donor classes
sheath in silk & Christian Dior holding long-stemmed glasses

With the tide of tinkled voices rising
And the painter to one side apprising
the whole uprising as if from a most distant shore
And say to himself Is this what I am painting for?
No wonder then that he adrift in this society
doth drink too much and roll upon the floor?


Poem #37 from 'A Far Rockaway of the Heart' by Lawrence Ferlinghetti