Why I Am Not a Sculpture

To be a statue               carved by Bernini

Lounging in a climate-controlled museum in Rome         is luxury

Like the luxury of a personal pan pizza            with unlimited free toppings

Or the luxurious feel of a premium eye pencil          used to draw bisons on the walls of a French cave

To be so white and glossy                   is unimaginable

Like how I imagine a plate of eggs painted by Velázquez           or the lid of a designer toilet cistern

In a European magazine                       (I could be European

And wear a dashingly arranged scarf          or sip weirdly-named liqueurs that taste like semen

In a Rococo palais)                but in the scheme of things

Where I am marble and still                  my wrist will be a marvel

Like the marvel of an isthmus           whose name can only be pronounced if you have a lisp

Or the marvelous sausage                that saved a man from the Inquisition in 1582

It is definitely marvelous                    to be as attenuated

As the casually extended leg of a greyhound                   reclining on its very own velvet settee

To be so thoroughbred                          is an accomplishment

Like the thoroughly flattened face of a Persian cat                   which always looks peevish

Or the extremely frivolous ceiling                   of a banqueting hall where royals are put to death

If it is admirable to be so luxurious                    then I will never be admired

The way a designer toilet cistern is admired               or a piece of elaborate pâtisserie

(Although I am not a statue                   I have often held my arms aloft

As when catching a carelessly thrown baby              or pointing at two meteors at the same time)

It is exhausting trying to be so inanimate               and desirable

If my arm breaks off  like the shell                of a freshly-filled cannoli

You will know why