Mona Lisa: Triumph in Exile
by Marvin R. Hiemstra

That heavy breathing person
tried to turn me into his
self-portrait. Get real.
Scruffy genius never wiped
anything, took forever to finish
me up while he babbled nonsense
about a horny old millstone
flying like a love-starved comet
and a heated mosaic floor: such
a cool aphrodisiac for the Pope.
That painter, a grunt at every dab,
wouldn’t let me wear my emerald
silk. Turned-on, he gave me the eye:
“You are the color, Signora.”
I wanted my little sour lemon
orchard behind me, not a wasteland.
After all that bother, he kept me
with him, face to the wall
in a dusty corner, until the end.
I really hated France then.

Now I smile and stare down
those wimpy mobs of hungry eyes.
I always win. Thanks to my smile.