Off Limits

The sign was clear: Do Not Touch the Art.

But the velvet rope was such a heavy red,

a thick, braided cord that pulled at my heart

until I forgot what the museum guide said.

I let my hand drop, just a casual brush,

expecting the softness of a royal chair.

Instead, my skin met a greasy, thin slush

of a thousand other fingers that had been there.

There’s a bald, matted patch on the side,

where the pile is worn down to the thread.

I felt the grit of the people who’d lied,

the same way I did, with a sense of dread.

I wiped my palm on the thigh of my jeans,

but the texture is stuck, a stubborn, oil stain.

I’m part of the dirt now, part of the scenes

of everyone breaking the rules in the rain.