My footsteps echo, bouncing like a
child's recess ball, singing along the

coiled walkway, in harmony with
the others. I peer at titles of soft-toned paintings

looking for answers in the plain black print.
A burble of laughter escapes my lips because

I see the tones of rust and ivory in the
skin of a painted woman before a mirror,

but all the artist could come up with was
Devant la Glace, and I am reminded of

names of classical piano pieces I have learned;
Allegro Assai only means very fast.

My eyes like to make connections,
the sun breaking through wide windows

is the Hudson with its dark scent of
murk, decaying leaves, and liquid rot

and the strange red shape in an abstract
is the boat rack that grinned at me

alone in a gravel lot.