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Why must it always be tomato soup?
The infant voice, embarrassingly loud.
Heads turn with knowing smiles, complacent smirks –
the usual child-free gallery-going crowd.

Why must it always . . .  Hush my darling one,
people are looking. Shall we count the cans?
Don’t call it boring quite so firmly; art
is more than water-colours like your Gran’s.

Why must it . . . Look, this one is different – see?
A woman’s face – and, yes, I know he’s made
them all the same. It’s what he does; his style.
I don’t know why ‘tomatoes’, I’m afraid.

Why must . . .  It’s just because he CAN, that’s why.
He’s famous; everybody knows his name  
and daren’t say (whisper!) this is so much tripe.
And you’re quite right to ask what makes this fame.