Fine Art Poem by Noah Smits

The highest form of art
is a man masturbating
in a street-corner outside a bar
and he zips up and turns
when the cop grabs his arm.
His feet clatter on the grating
as he voices his alarm—
"What did I do to earn
your disdain? I make art,
and I just made something
with affection from the heart."
The copper's eyes burn
and his lips again part.
"Jail is where you are going"
—thus did the finest depart
of whom we could never learn.