In the art gallery

For someone like me
always looking for home,
this I know is where I belong -

in an Art Gallery
steeped in history
full of ghosts of artists past

and present, feeding me
their wares, giving life
to a fragile receptive soul

keeping me alert, my senses open -
my ancestors, my clones,
my soulmates for company

and although sometimes
I may be jostled, pushed,
forced to listen to the ignorant

the uninitiated, irritated
by the wearers of official i-pods
telling them what to think,

the note-writers, sketch-book
doodlers, preparing lectures,
college assignments;

dawdlers reading the blurb
yet knowing nothing, unseeing,
whilst I can take in a painting

at a glance - my second-sight
absorbing in seconds
all I need to know -

a break for tea at the cafe,
people-watching - spot the famous
faces doing culture,

a quick sortie round the shop -
stomach-clenchingly weirdly
mesmerising sacred images

on tea-towels and aprons;
and all the time wondering
how would it feel to be here at night,

just me and my unseen companions
soaked in combined imagination,
living in an unreality so real

so tangible I could be part of it -
this is my life-blood, this could be
home.