.
.
“Art is the same thing as life!”
said the sculptor Veronica Phyfe,
sitting tight beside Pamela Sydney,
her sculpture-in-progress in whom
she had that day created the room
to implant an abandoned left kidney.
.
“The kidney of course had been mine,
and seems to be doing just fine,”
she opined, with a quick glance at Pam.
She suspected Pam knew that she’d lied,
that the kidney in fact had been pried
from a piglet en route to becoming a ham.
.
Pam sat immobile, inert and unmoved.
Veronica Phyfe felt unduly reproved.
The pain in the paint, the glee in the glue,
whiskers clipped from that mad hissing cat –
Pam must recall all the glory of that!
“Just think of the life I’ve put into you!”
.
For Pam, and for Art, that wasn’t enough.
(Pygmalion visits invisibly: sighs.)
Veronica pouts, all obstreperous huff.
(“Art, unlike life, never lies.”)
.
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