Pandemically Andy

On a pandemic day in October 2020 I set out on a bike ride.

I don’t really ride my bike as much as I click in and drive it as hard as I am able. 

Up hills with arduous determination, down hills with glee and abandon.

My objective this warm fall day was the Warhol Museum.

Twenty miles wending through urban streets, dancing in busy traffic.

I don’t wear a mask when I’m biking but some people do.

At the museum there wasn’t a big crowd, however I was denied access to the collection.

Pandemic protocols requiring advanced reservations

I hadn’t received the memo.

I spent a little time in the gift shop

A literally queer adventure in consumerism.

Fun and colorful bric-a-brac, precocity sans precious.

I suspect Andy would have liked that part. 

An overly, clean-cut comic statue of Vincent Van Gogh

Five inches high and sporting a cracked base

Available at a discount.

In the reception area: a giant photo of Warhol

Lounging horizontally on velvety red oval couch

Underneath: the actual couch, an altar for photoselfism.

Walking over to the cafe, all was shut down for protection from the virus.

Offering no sustenance for an intrepid cyclist

Out for a picnic of visual modernism.

How odd it seemed to me

That food and drink was deemed more threatening

Than galleries of gapping visitors breathing in hot clouds.

Returning to the check-in desk where

four museum workers sat behind plexiglass sheets,

Faithfully governing access to the collections…

A pitiful plastic bottle of clear gel sat on the other side

Chemical defense against the invisible killer lurking nearby

A lone soldier standing guard against invasive toxin.

I pumped a few squirts of juicy sanitizer on the fingers

peeking out of my cutoff, red-leather gloves

padded to cushion impacts from rough roads.

Adjusting my green-fabric mask I made my way

to the big glass doors at the front of the museum

with resigned intention to exit the ironically staid building.

The words “Pro Sanity” written across my mask

Having special meaning during this horror show of an election year

When too many people lie dying from viral neglect.

My right elbow performing a mechanical stand in

For hands reluctant to touch door handles,

Depressing square metal plates with chicken-wing grace.

On the street I retrieved my wheeled horse

Evaporating into the city

Consumed by the bustling Sunday show all around me.