CLAES OLDENBURG'S STUDIO

Still as my Dutch uncle
with a pre war monocle
who came here
after being tortured
by the Gestapo
arriving engulfed by waves
in long suffering
took me in his arms
at Ellis Island
with a homage
to his own art
cut short
by the collaborators
whose own daughter
never returned to him
from the camps
having been betrayed
by a jealous fascist
who pretended
to be on the ladder
of personal angels,
but who sold
his territorial soul
to the sibilants
of hostile Nazi snakes
and here in the Big Apple
of New Amsterdam
in his wretchedness
by the silken wind
on the city streets
under noonday snow
almost strangled
by his black umbrella
outside the expressionist
studios in the city
where Claes seized him
with a drink of red wine
in his shaken hands
greeting him with mercy
upon hearing
my uncle's language
on his wet floorboards.