Museum Piece

The room is empty, or nearly so,
a few things scattered.
From the outside you cannot be sure
whether they are the remains,
waiting to be moved,
or the start of something new.

About this poem

When I go to museums, I have a weakness for peeking into rooms that are closed, where exhibits are being put together or taken apart. All that work to make something beautiful. It fascinates me. Many, like this one, are art into themselves.

Our lives are like that, I think. Except for those closest to us, it’s hard to tell where we are building, and where we are removing to create the art that is us.

Tom