Andy Warhol, Easter

I am bothered
by today
in some little way:
like Andy Warhol
in the photo I just saw of him:
in drag, a Polish matron
of a certain age, red lips,

bad skin, pert coiffed wig,
responding to the meaningless
effrontery of his Existence
with an unconvincing stab
at childlike calm, arguing
for autism – perhaps
to be confused with Zen –

as the achievable Enlightenment.
If I were he, would I suspend
all judgment and propend
the carrot right before
my nose of a complete
finality? – paying such close
heed to every bump

and texture, I’d forget whatever
need propelled me into
the investigation to begin with?
Does his coda add the Z to A?
I am by bothered
by today
in some little way.

.