My Mother and Andy Warhol
She’s pointing out to me, so I’m aware,
There’s more to him than cans; for her, what makes
It art is in the thorough pains he takes
On soups now grown mysterious and rare.
They aren’t all the same; Scotch broth is there
Along with chicken noodle. A heart aches
For everything a change of taste forsakes,
But here they are, displayed with equal care.
In him she sees the terms of motherhood
And like a Green Stamp book he will create
The needs redeeming him will validate.
For Mom, what lies beyond is Hollywood:
However golden, Marilyn will fade,
But soup is soup, eternal, ready made.
Robert Donohue is a poet and playwright. His poetry has appeared in Better Than Starbucks, E-Verse Radio and Pendemic, to name a recent few. The Red Harlem Readers gave his verse play, In One Piece, (about Vincent Van Gogh) a staged reading in 2014. He lives and works on Long Island, NY.
The Ekphrastic Review
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