“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.”)