My Foot
by Greg Rose

“You know Frank was considered a poet among painters,” said the woman. Statement, not question. She pointed at the sculpture with her walking stick like a professor at a blackboard.  

“I did know that,” I replied. Like her, I had read the text stuck on the wall in the previous room. I didn’t come to galleries to receive lessons from old ladies, but my mild surprise at the unprompted remark was sufficient to lure me into examining its maker. Her unmasked face was an omelette, pocked, lopsided and mustardy. Black designer glasses perched precariously on her upturned nose like a dare.