I met
Yoko Ono today
at an exhibit
of the artwork of John Lennon.

It was difficult
to see your past
through the line of patrons waving
credit cards, signing for thousands of dollars
for lithographs of song lyrics,
A Small Pig, Collieflower,
Erotic 1 through 3,
Drawings for Sean,
What’s Wrong With This Picture?

But there you were

Standing, small and quiet
unassumed and undisturbed.
Fame and Exile..

Once John imagined walking
you through the field of life
helping you
Watch the Holes, Yoko,
guiding you, yet
you were older, richer,
already an artist.
Where is your art now?
What do you say Yes to?

Opposite your images
surrounding you, his drawings
all you,
all naked, white, bright and plump,
you stand black, still, vacant, posthumous,
drawn and so thoroughly part of his creation
as though you were but sculpture,
but one more exhibit.

I expected to see a plaque next to you,
detailing the materials of your composition,
date of production, intention of creation
and a name. Artwork is so often titled
for that essence the form enfolds.
Lennon’s Tomb, perhaps.

We did not exchange a word.