Let’s meet at the Met for the end of our world to cry
For our grief is metastatic, our losses terminal
We’ll walk through rooms where pyramids and mummies lie
And keep our distance slightly personal
Visit Monet’s water lilies and van Gogh’s fields
Until we ourselves, lost within, are hidden stars
Exploring the great splendors that each painting yields
Layer upon layer in cosmic avatars
Wandering the echoed halls without a worry
Though the air is sedated, we try to find home
Among ivory statues, it’s not a hurry
For nostalgia, sweet nostalgia, a benign syndrome
gets us to stroll down Fifth Ave with thoughts of our youth
remembering the New York slice and old phone booths