The red, hot off the stove that shines brightly,
Religion says it should be on bottom,
But mom doesn’t care; she’s heating it up
Anyway. The boys need to eat a meal.
Besides, who would read into such poor art
Like that? It’s just a picture of Campbell’s
Soup, a can painted on a square canvas,
Hanging next to a bunch of other cans
On a museum wall. Anyone can
do that. What next, a Marilyn Monroe
Photo with crazy colored face and hair?
The white, it suffocates the metallic
Cylinder. So empty yet quite striking,
The same ‘lack of’ is found inside the line,
But that thread, a sliver of silver black
Separates famous art from a doodle
Sheet that a little boy named Andy drew
Upon, when he was prepping for a life
Of fantastic fame for copyrighted work.
The white crept up into the red ceiling,
And tried its luck at standard block letters,
But got comfortable and wrote cursive.
The gold, taking center stage, but it does
Not matter. It tries to star dance along
The bottom and outline the Soup label
And streak across the top like a brush stroke
But it fails to bring itself any weight.
The black, bold in white, shining on the can
And giving that gold circle some comfort.
It holds its own with its friends. Red. White. Gold.
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