Trip to the Prado
Occasional Poems
Trip to the Prado It’s too much. You tell me this about half way around. We should just look at one painting, I suggest. Later, over cocktails. Mine, a smoky old fashioned delivered like a hesitant volcano. Yours, a margarita. I see you relish the salt. We talk of Caravaggio. Apparently the one in Rome is more dramatic. I’m showing off. I’m still thinking about David’s feet. You reply. Just a boy. I see you dissolve one salt crystal with your tongue. He painted himself as Goliath in later versions. Was he trying to dissolve or absolve himself, I muse. I sip the sweet bourbon as I talk. That’s as good as it gets, I conclude. Yes, you say, tilting the stem of your glass. But can you imagine being there.
Caravaggio 🥰