Neither that rainstorm in the middle of the night
nor the brilliant sunlit day changes a thing.
The castaways are doomed.
Those well fed victims clinging to a black raft
mounted on the wall in the Louvre
will float adrift forever waving at that distant ship.
Never to be rescued.
Yet never to eat or starve.
And I say well fed because those are models
Parisians with full bellies and not those
who at the moment depicted
had not a nibble or sip for two weeks
Always in torment much like a frozen ball
of worms or tangled marionettes smeared
with tar, painted with bitumin.
And their tipsy raft is lost upon choppy water
meringue on lemon pie not yet cut into wedges
Never placed on the table with fork and cup of tea
Just a raft of people who have perpetually
lost their boat and are fated to float till the end of time.
Last nights rain won't quench their thirst.
None of the thousands who walk through the gallery
may pause for a moment wondering what is going on
will ever come to rescue The Raft of the Medusa.
Sinking and never sinking
under the weight of inky paint.