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  • Todd Wooten

A Day at the Getty

The museum is like molasses.

One slow step at a time.

A small town Alabama boy

on the outskirts of L.A.

where tapestries hang overhead.


Across the room the

skull of a monster hangs.

Emerging from the mist.

Poised to attack the thin crowd.

I collapse on a bench in worship.


A plate reads

Rouen Catherdral - Monet.

The painting is all that exists.

The world passes by in front of me.

Blocking my view.

I would tell them to hurry but I am mute.


I rise and walk outside.

My lungs need fresh air.

To the west I see the Pacific.

To the east the city.

I notice the view become less clear.

I grab a glass of wine to continue the intoxication.


As I sip the city fades.

Smog floating in and covering.

Blurred in the haze, retreating out of view.

If only Claude were here with his easel.

Capturing the reversal of what he saw in 1892.

The city skeleton disappears.

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