Art with a Capital T

 

Woods at the edge of a marsh.

Someone has placed a bookcase

of varnished maple, shelves

vacant but expectant. Also

a slab of plywood on the ground

with a large plastic jug, a wire

device of unknown purpose,

and an unused bar of soap.

The jug has a pink stopper,

the plywood is filthy with mildew.

 

Discovering this installation

far from the nearest house

confirms that art is everywhere.

You order me to photograph it

before coming rain can spoil it.

But this isn’t something the Louvre

would hanker for. A narrow board

lies beside it with “Free” spray-painted,

so this is only discarded junk,

not the clever arrangement

we saw from the corners of our eyes.

 

Still, I snap a couple of pictures

to hang in the MFA, the Tate,

the Met, or Wadsworth Atheneum

when the curators aren’t looking.

Then all would agree that art

with a capital T has arrived

in woods at the edge of a marsh

in Harrisville, New Hampshire,

blossoming in the autumn when

people add worn-out belongings

to landscapes too plain to admire

without a touch of culture.