On Salvador Dali's Pubes

(based on a true story)
(is that a Serval??)

On Salvador Dali's Pubes

In a museum in St. Petersburg,
Salvador Dali's pubic hair
is glued to one of his paintings.

He eternalized himself in that painting,
I have since forgotten the name to,
in the form
of a drain clogging relic.

The strands have remained pitch
since 1936
but Salvador woke up each day
greyer.

I saw them
curled on cloth,
gessoed down
like spider kicks defeated,
the smell of Catalonia coming off of them.

I could see Gala pressed up against them
yelping, "SALVADOR! SALVADOR!"
As oiled skulls dried nearby,
the reds blushing oranges,
egg shapes collapsing
into panting pieces of white.

Amongst this statement, this
commemoration of his boyhood
gone to bed,
I wondered, inches from
his loin's leaves:
is there a man
somewhere in St. Pete
whose job it is,
every few seasons, to replace
Salvador Dali's pubes
when they faint into dust?