and the Guayasamin hands.
I have never tasted Warhol branded soup
nor have I tanned under Van Gogh's yellow sun.
My knees refuse to touch the dirt
in front of canvas churches.
Once I tried to hold David's pose
all moring into the Kinkade twilight,
I shook and cracked
in unattractive ways.
But my ears remain attached
and I haven't succumbed to wine.
Not yet at least.
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