When I Go to an Art Gala I Talk to No One

I don’t want to hear how the artist’s

mother died in a house fire or know

where he or she falls on the attractiveness scale

between Sloth from The Goonies

and Jake Gyllenhaal in his early thirties

or watch whether or not the artist will flirt

with the critic who works for the only-

kind-of-important New York magazine

nor do I take an hors d’oeuvre

off the silver (yes silver!) platter

held by the skinny white guy

in the slim-fit white dress shirt

who smells like yellow pack American Spirits

but what I do is stand in front of each piece

for about six or seven minutes

longer if anyone enters my line of vision

and try to figure out the artist’s gimmick

whether he does bright squares real good

or she slops like 10 layers on everything

or exclusively paints different angles

of Fonzie from Happy Days

and usually I read the accompanying descriptions

which always makes the artist come off

as either pretentious or simple-minded

and sometimes helps me understand

his or her particular gimmick

since every artist has a gimmick

and the good ones have five or six gimmicks

and when I come across a great piece

one that makes me feel as though I am the exact person

meant to appreciate its greatness

I stare at it until after the lights go out and the janitor

inadvertently sloshes mop water on my Nunn Bush shoes

and if anyone tries to articulate the greatness in words

I plug my ears with each index finger and keep staring

so that when I close my eyes for the next few hours

the ghost of the piece (as though a bright bulb) remains

---

Dylan Loring is a poet from Des Moines, Iowa. He received his MFA in Creative Writing from Minnesota State University, Mankato and teaches at the University of Wisconsin-Barron County. Some of his recent poems have appeared in Bridge Eight, Third Point Press, and the minnesota review.