rich as warhol

Rich as Warhol

When I was a painter
I would paint a still life of pastry
every morning over coffee,
in foolish love
with sugar donuts
and cream cheese danish.

Anything is possible on the internet
and my agent—the one who declared doves
nothing but pigeons with a publicist—
made me rich as Warhol,
my romantic style with baked goods
taking the art world’s fancy—
the golden flesh tones
of dough glistening with glaze,
arranged provocatively
on white plates,
my new work
praised by critics,
displayed In famous art galleries.

Patrons, in single file, admire and wonder:
“Is this a painting of a maple bar
or a reclining nude?”