Monsieur, Monsieur, what would you think these days about
your paintings poorly reproduced, muted monochromatic
slipped into sloppy frames hanging in hallways
that will never see the sunlight, the stars, the moon above
the brash barbed wire circles jailing
abandoned churches and schools, once thriving
store fronts, old hotels, the ruins of Newark
noise and graffiti competing with the
temporary trappings of life, of work, of wonder
below the neon signed buildings, bricks crumbling
concrete walls, plastic flapping flags triangular
like prayers for old cars, presumably for sale
like pawn shops squeezed next to beauty parlors,
bodegas, bakeries, piles of refuse, towering
angry murals painted over hardware and furniture store
stencilling, barred windows, grated doors, people wearing layers
of clothes walking dogs that have seen better days,
no one makes eye contact here with this white woman
seeking answers in this harsh place where your
soft palette, shimmering water, oh Claude, with
your battered hat and cane going blind kept painting
these are the people who need to see your lost lilies
these are the people who need your gentle Japanese bridges
witnessed years ago pristine in a museum, the entire room
so silent, strangers dared not talk or whisper or move
although many wept where once your old French hands
had captured the elusive inner calm in the midst of noise,
trials and troubles, the peace which passes all understanding