da Vinci’s basement

I swung by Clos Lucé
and knocked on the door:
no answer…
Leonardo was not home.

fortunately, world renowned polymaths
always leave a key
under the potted plants.

I made my way down to the basement,
the staircase groaning.

the table had scraps of papers
with illegible scribbles,
and on a small stove,
some half baked ideas
were lightly simmering;

parts were strewn around
and an unfinished sketch,
that recalled the work of a schoolboy
watching the clock for the final bell,
sat on the easel.

no Vitruvian Man hung here,
the Mona Lisa probably resides
in the master bedroom;
this was part factory,
part graveyard
of ideas.

why do I skip up
those creaky steps
more in awe of the man
than ever before?

< Poetry