Magic in Waiting
The gallery is closed.
Barriers by the doorway.
Somehow that has never been the deterrent
the builders imagine,
and you walk past, into the empty room.
Patches on the wall
where last season’s art once hung,
waiting for fresh paint,
Platforms too. Empty and anticipating
becoming useful again, holders of things,
The spotlights overheard are off.
In time someone will scale tall ladders
and aim each one, just so,
bringing illumination and focus
to each spot on the wall.
The better to see.
The room resonates emptiness.
The quiet anticipation of next reverberates,
a power of its own
as rare and wonderful
as any room full and on display.
Magic, in waiting.
About this poem
It is a bad habit I have passed on to my children, peering into closed rooms in museums. There is, for me, something special in looking behind the curtain where things are unfinished. It’s the same way about people. Behind the curtain is where the magic lives.