The party hoppers
wolfing down the wine and cheese
without a glance at what might be
considered art
At all those Thursday evening openings
in San Francisco
And the critics and the crickets
and the singles out to score
And the docents of the donor classes
sheathed in silk & Christian Dior
holding long-stemmed glasses
With the tide of tinkled voices rising
And the painter to one side apprising
the whole uprising
as if from a most distant shore
And saying to himself Is this
what I am painting for?
No wonder then that he
adrift in this society
doth drink too much
and roll upon the floor?
Lawrence Ferlinghetti
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