Nancy Rubins must be laughing

 

Her viewers explore and walk around her.

 

Looks of shock, disgust, and confusion are written on their faces.

 

Some get close, some do not.

 

Some talk, some do not.

 

Is it right? Or is it wrong? They argue.

 

Is it art? Or is it junk? They continue.

 

Open mouthed viewers look at Rubins’ detail.

 

Close up, or far away.

 

No viewers interfere with other viewers or Rubins.

 

They stand alone, or they stand with others.

 

They do not take up your room, or my room.

 

Some point, some tilt their heads, some read.

 

The guard wipes his sweat off.

 

Couples go on.

 

0-72457 Auxiliary.

 

Rubins’ old jet.

 

Rubins’ old crap.

 

Rubins’ space on the first floor of MOMA.

 

Rubin is in my room.

 

I am in Rubins’ room.

 

Her viewers are in her room.

 

The guard wipes his sweat off.

 

No one touches.

 

No one speaks aloud.

 

Discussions and arguments can be heard.

 

I am sure Rubins is laughing.

 

Rubins has no sweat, just bread.

 

The guard is hungry; he sweats.

 

Tourists, students, professionals, observers.

 

All of them are present, but none interfere.

 

Quietness.

 

Dirt in the metal do not make a sound.

 

I can hear the echo of flight.

 

No one here is flying.

 

Only the guard sweats.

 

We all stand to look.

 

I am sure we all wonder why we cannot sit.

 

Why can’t we touch?

 

Why can’t we talk aloud?

 

I am sure we obey the rules of the current society.

 

I am sure we question them.

 

Rubins’ art questions them.

 

The guard does not.

 

New viewers roll in.

 

New viewers follow the old viewers’ patterns.

 

The guard is still sweating.

 

I wish I could meet the “First Officer.”

 

Does anyone else fly?

 

 

 

 

Spring 1995

© David Greg Harth 1995