Bones on the Table

Bones on the table. Art on the walls.
Space in between.

There is no one in the room to explain
what it all means

Not that it matters. Not to you.
You are content

to see. To create your own meaning
out of the relics,

not unlike what you have done
in what is left of your own life.

Bones on the table. Whose, you wonder?
What was? What can you make of them
now?

Because in the end that is the question.
What now? What next? What can be?

What limits can you clamber over?
What history you can ignore

and what must you retain? What
can you remake and still

remain yourself.

About this poem.

Assuming we are alive, not just breathing, we are constantly remaking ourselves. How much can we make new and how much do we need to retain to remain who we are?

Yeah, it’s that kind of day in my head.

Tom

PS: The picture was taken (I think) at the Metropolitan Museum of Modern Art, before the time of Covid. Can’t wait to go back.