No painting

What I am not
A Renaissance painting

Neither surrounded by a golden frame
nor by viewers frozen in amaze

No cello shapes, no pretty face
Not a trace of grace
in my tired eyes
No mysterious smile
In my arms no child

My body is rather
a sack of barley
and a discarded
accordion

No song
was ever written
to celebrate my existence

Recently research has verified
that the playground slide
was inspired
by my nose

There is no symphoni
accompanying me
Just a bitter beat
like the staining of my teeth
it refuses to release

What I am
is art