the art of catching is to acquire repose
in a soft seat near a window of the curve
amid the Giacomettis and Picassos, Gaudier-Brzeskas,
Modiglianis, Rodins, Rossos, Moores, Degas's and Daumiers
with rain outside, the chill of forced air in the high window vents
the leather reclines just beyond the angle of comfort
crossing your arms brings the gravity forward
the book is open in your lap, your glasses,
hat suggest wakefulness to the guards
you have some sleep, a little of it, the in and out
amid the dead sculptors' iron and the rain
yields to belts of sun as you assume
the drowsy dare of art