hung up (at the met)

they come by
in ones or twos
and sometimes in groups —
(a school field-trip
of uniformed children
laughing in line
or an adult painting
class with their earnest
instructor droning on
about light and form
as gray-haired women
scribble notes) to pause
and pay homage
in front of some framed
canvas artfully hung
on display, (but
the bulk simply run
by as if on a scavenger hunt
hurriedly snapping photos
from behind smart phones
raised before blank faces
and often at bad angles
missing the finer details
and any possible point
altogether) and i wonder
what they feel (or if most
even bother to note
a single thought
at all) standing collectively
close and face to face
with another so-
called masterpiece.