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
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
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.
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.