Painting Poem

I don't have Warhol's Green Coca-Cola Bottles in my den
I don't have Georgia O' Keefe botanical studies in
my damned living room which is still the den.
I don't have a Norman Rockwell in my bathroom
and don't want one either. I don't have
a bottle of Chivas Regal on a silver serving tray
on a side table in my dining room. That would
connotate regality and there are none of those here.
Above where the Lady Of The House is supposed
to be at dinner there is no Andrew Wyeth
but a tabby by some unknown Tennessee artist.
An original no less. Where the foyer is supposed
to be there is a numbered print of Dark Side Of The Moon
on the living room closet adjacent to the front door.
Above my stove where some genteel philosophy
should be is a small modernist painting from K-Mart.
It is of a coffee, with the wind and the sea through a
French window beyond the steam. It took only two
domestic beers to hang this picture. Over where
there should be a painting by a family liaison, there
is a photo that is an ad. A guy with long greasy hair in a
an overstuffed leather chair being blown by the wind
of a high-performance speaker. I buy those tapes.
No impressionist art hangs in my brief hallway.
There's a peculiar painting of dolphins underwater and
the longer you look at it the more you see. It was
a Christmas gift. Now the master bedroom (you
couldn't wait to get there, could you?) is where I have
simple paintings. I don't know what the middle-upper class
caste would have.