She strolled with grace, a goddess in a fur,
holding a handbag and a champagne flute.
My Ego nudged my Id, said, "Look at her!"
so I proceeded, in my warm-up suit,
to turn my sneakers on the slick parquet
and sidle up to the Rodin display.
The Thinker brooded there, a studied pose
of Man's reflective mood (without his clothes).

She stood, absorbed in art, admiring him,
his bundled muscles bronzed and set in state.
I touched my baseball cap, then tipped the brim,
flashed a grin, and asked, "Could this be fate?"
The sleek Parisian smirked and, with a scoff,
she shook her head, mouthed "Non", and sashayed off.

I watched her, slumped to sit, and cocked my wrist,
and pondered the rejection, chin to fist.