There’s a single Basquiat on display
in an exhibit called One Basquiat.
I don’t like it.
It looks stupid.
Staring at what could be a self-portrait
(I think I can make out dreds
in its non-representational design)
is a glorious beret-wearing hipster girl
whose hips I watch
as she crosses the room.

She easily pulls my attention away from Untitled
(great naming, Jean-Michel. Jesus!)
and I follow her,
licking lips,
as she reads, enraptured,
of the work whose air we share.
She is the art in the room,
not this graffitied loaner from Yusaku Maezawa.

I begin to collect the thoughts
that will compose into a poem
when she looks at me
with the equivalent disgust I have
for One Basquiat.
She is not impressed with me.
I scurry off
so she can read in peace.

Clearly, we cannot all share opinions
on what is truly beautiful in the world.
While she and I may, in fact,
both revel in her glory,
we apparently do not agree on Basquiat
or me.