In The Illusionary Boudoir Of Maya Poem by Alexandre Nodopaka

The facing interior wall was not veneer stone.
It's Paris and I, a Southern Californian,
where everything is plastic didn't dare ask
if it was ok for me to touch it.

It was a narrow and very long living room with
oversized tall windows facing St.Germain des Prés.
Opposing the glass panes was a wall
elegantly decorated with master-painted oils.

Reclining on a Spartan couch bordered by two
matching recliners of the Bauhaus period
I couldn't help feeling impressed. A second sofa
with stark dark African-patterned pillow and

bedspread captivated my interest that Freud
would've approved and Jung archetyped.
On the farthest wall to the left my eye remarked
what appeared to be a Klimt on a silk fabric.

The hostess returned with refreshments and
a pack of cigarettes. I lit up and moved
the ashtray with a still smoldering match
on top of a portfolio and saw the frozen

expression of her mouth that reminded me
of Munch's Scream as she blurted,
Please not here! ! !
They are priceless originals!