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.