! ! Being The Monna Lisa. Exclusive. Poem by Michael Shepherd

If you think it would be fun to be famous,
sit in for me for a day. And be cured.

Fame...builds you up
then drains you.

‘Celebrity’ – the very word
has built-in obsolescence..

then you have to appear in
cheap TV shows to keep it up..

At least back in Milan
we knew what mattered and what didn’t.

So I sit here all day, have my eyes damaged
by cell-phone flash;

but worst of all - the faces;
gawping gormless.

At least when you’re a film star
you know what they want from you:

your fame, your handsomeness, your beauty,
your wealth, your power over men or women;

with me, they don’t know what they want:
who wants a mysterious smile for themselves?

I’m just a package with the Eiffel Tower;
the Taj Mahal of France.

Faces, idiot faces. All day long.
I’m drained by evening, long for pasta.

If Len were still around, I’d ask
to have him paint dark glasses on.

And BTW, I didn’t look like this
when he first painted me..

all the first mothers in Milan
knew exactly what was on my mind

all those hours in the studio; yes,
the rest was nice during pregnancy;

you think of how it’s going to be;
your hopes for him.. or her..; how it will turn out;

how stable the Italian state will be;
who’ll be ruling Milan then..

every pregnant girl knows
exactly what my smile meant;

but after all these years of being stared at, it's gone
sad; withdrawn; but half-forgiving –

it means – I’ve had enough…
steal me, someone! Len, love –

for holy Botox’ sake -
give me a nip-and-tuck..

the price of fame was ever
far too high; and you may quote me.