Museum

A suggested donation is paid as

paint dust, dried rainbow, faded flakes

flutter in the columns of over head light

bouncing off the tile floors dispersing

the diamond flecks of inspiration in

the pristine recycled air.

Avenues of captured sight are lined with

the painted and engraved mirrors in which

few dare to truly gaze. Plug in and be guided along.

Theories and educated guesses swirl

as invisible smoke that is present

as real forestalling silence.

A boy dressed in a business suit says

“That picture with the lady and the baby is pretty.”

As his father listens to the prerecorded commentary

from his white plastic covered earphones.

The boy loosens his tie as a pot has caught

his eye and he rushes to the pedestal.

He tries to stop but the body and base

collide. The pendulum once in motion

cannot find its center.

On to the tile, the Grecian Urn falls

to become pieces, parts of a sum

that litter the avenue so none shall

pass as a claxon call terrifies the patrons

and alerts the curator to call the insurer

but the father cannot hear.

Guards in gray, underpaid and sleepy in their cells

converge upon the disintegrated past

as the reflection of a badge

glitters in the father’s eyes.

Light takes time to deliver the dance

of inverted images into the mind and we

forever chase the present and live in

passed by moments.

The urn was broken before the boy

saw it shatter.