In Mondrian’s studio the doorway
            never flinches.

A straw hat retreats into shadow
            hiding from the sun’s blanching heat.

Walls white, table white 
            and a vase glazed a muted gray.

Inside, a flower has forgotten its name
            and practices the art of dying.

Where are the masking tape and rulers,
            the exacting mathematical graphs?

Instead, a chrysanthemum and a woman’s breast,
            skin partitioned by black lines. 

Her nose equals a perfect red square, 
            hips, flawless rectangles in blue.

A door is open, a man is missing
            and here, a woman in plain view.