I stand here before seven dogs playing poker.

To my right is a farmer couple but the man

with the pitchfork orders me away from his house

so I leave only to be embarrassed by Courbet’s

tousle-haired woman enticing me to her settee

as she reclines in the glory of her nakedness

while from another wall, Henri Matisse beams his

critical bug eyes and narrow face, forcing me to leave,

but distant cries of torment shock me and I

race to the end of the hall where I see people

helplessly attempt to protect their

children from the Reubens massacre.

I close my ears to their cries and I race down

to a flat meadow emitting a bouquet of old oils.

A washerwoman at a creek does her laundry

but she does not hear when I call out to her.

It is only when I shut out my knowledge of Renoir

that his colors come alive and reach out to touch me

and then I know I can step inside the canvas

and that the washerwoman will smile at me.

— Tom Mach lives in Lawrence.