Life is no Gauguin.
We are not found displayed near the mangroves,
Composed at tasks.
The sand the ruffled sea once hemmed
Is disarrayed.  Somewhere around
Are the footprints of Margaret Mead.
The dogs slink out beyond the ornate frame.

It is a Mondrian.  In cubicles
We fit at desks before our altared phones.
The secretaries bring in offerings
And we are beached
Unless we grab our coats,
Reach down our hats and canes
And shuffle out, Toulouse-Lautrecs,
Into Parisian streets of where we live.

This needs another visit up front -- too good to just slip into the hinterlands without reviews!  Pick worthy, I think, but will just send back up for the moment.

good 'un,  jonathan.

lynn

I never saw this and I'm so sorry! This is a fine poem. I fell right into the first line and out into the Paris streets.