Postmodern Mona Lisa

I’m famous. Not for anything I’ve done

but for my jaw and hunter eyes. I’m seen

all over city streets. Aside neon,

the tourists gaze at me: a God in Jeans.

I’ve become art on the aristocrat’s

uncovered walls– the cold guarantee

of immortality– cold like the flat

I can't afford. Hollow like desperate pleas

to faceless hookups, making love to their

idea of me. An empty bed prayer

ignored. A model’s dream achieved, a glare

that will not fade. A nameless superstar.

On grimy roads, the mecca’s glimmer dims

enough so that a god can walk as human.