there's something
about those famous fountains
shooting streams
of holy water
into the sacred atmosphere
like a thousand angels
pissing into the wind
there's something
about those cold pools
collecting carefree coins and careless wishes
from clenched minds and unholy hands
tossing future hope and senseless dreams
out into the frigid world
like a million tiny weary insects
rubbing translucent wings and wiry legs together
augury vibration in the austere air
there's something
about all that famous nouveau art
dangling on crudely painted walls
rude displays of psychotic pleas
creations by neurotic artists
proceeds from their mental lairs
brush strokes with their own ideas
fisting Mona Lisa and Madonna
when the art gallery closes
poor Mona Lisa cries and cries
Madonna closes her downcast eyes
she simply crosses her legs and doesn't care
stroking a sticky pickle that is no longer there
like Picasso's Guernica
shrouds of da Vinci's  dark sadness
exposed like Michelangelo's stark terror
there's something
but we don't really know what
then looking up and down and all around
there's that single grain of sand
arrested in the palm of every hand

                      * * *