Salvador Dali is nothing like Robert Hass.
Hass for example has no moustache.
The handlebars I held onto as a kid
riding up and down Starr Avenue
like a pendulum one lovesick summer
had nothing to my chagrin like the whimsey
above Salvador's chin. Nor were his
dripping and drooping clocks the clocks
we watched nor his the watches we wore.
The museum that winds you through a labyrinth
of gift shop aisles and past the smart cafe
to where you queue to view the master's art
is nothing like the semi-dark archive
that will likely house the poet's visions and revisions.
It will not sport a geodesic dome of glass
to withstand tropical storms and wow crowds.
No infinite stash of souvenirs for credit cards
or cash. Nor is it likely you will be allowed to touch
what touched the poet's hand white gloves or not.
For lunch a brown paper sack you packed with carrot sticks
and a sandwich, a piece of fruit and a Dasani from the basement
vending machine where you sip in the dark semi-fluorescent light.
Impossible to say whose art will last or for how long
or how either would figure into his work say a small red bird
on a garden chair across the patio that flies into the dense foliage
of a lychee tree and is alternately impossible and easy to see.
The Collected Works of Robert Hass are waiting for him to pass.
Dali is mostly in St. Petersburg and Spain. Both are easy to find
on the net. But as for the handlebars of the bike i never rode
as a kid or the small red bird, my pony ate them.