And yet, there are guards
Two guards stand in the room.
Art sprawls across the floor.
Outside the glass is the city.
You sit in the far corner.
Valuable stuff this art. Abstract. 3D.
I’m an artist myself and I know
the work that goes into this random scattering or materials.
Valuable, and yet no one comes to see or steal.
But there are guards.
Vigilant. Well dressed. Armed.
Careful men. Watchers, and you wonder
what they make of the art.
Does it seep into their souls?
Do they shake their heads in wonderment?
Do they laugh?
Do they understand at all? Does it matter?
You wait in your corner and watch.
You are there too long, and become a person of suspicion.
What could keep someone in this room so long,
this room where no one stays.
And yet, there are guards.
About this poem
We spend a lot of time worrying about what others think. The truth is, most of them don’t even notice. Or if they notice, they don’t much care. Or if they care, they don’t much matter.
The picture was taken at MoMA in New York City.