Bosched & Breugled

The Froggy Bog at Bougival. Camille Pissarro. 1869

There’s a froggy bog

At Bougival.

Sirens wheezing.

Canadian geese geesing

To an off-tune violin cringe:

A melody without a hinge.

 

Assumed the stress

Was left behind

Snoozing on the fence.

Thought we were past tense.

 

But no.

This is the now.

Holy cow.

Stencils and pencils,

Oily utensils.

“Oh by gosh,”

Pierre muttered

with panache

and then spent the last 

Of his per diem

At the art museum.

 

Gaining access

He could address

Where he’d digressed.

 

Later he confessed

That he’d been depressed

If not somewhat possessed.

 

But he took his time,

Sipped his wine,

Enthralled at the shrine:

 

Bosched and Bruegled;

Renoired and café tabled;

Scarlett lettered and Clark Gabled.

 

Rodin and fisacoed

Picassoed and lassoed;

Degas viewed, and thus El Passoed.