The Next Room

White draping over frames,
fixed with a plaster coating.
Greek priests without faces.
Ghosts.

Unlike the ones in your life
these stay still, statuary
in dramatic lighting, showpieces
meant to stimulate.

There is comfort in their stillness.
In the assurance of the finality of them,
unlike the ghosts that wake you in the night
with changing faces and the ability to follow

you in the morning. Those ghosts,
the ones that live, sometimes include you,
past versions with all their struggle
and the lies in your head, storytellers

of tales not true, tales planted by other ghosts
so far in the past that they have become see-through,
easier each year (finally) to push back into the ether
where they belong.

You sip your coffee. Stare at the statuary.
They have their own beauty,
not the least of all that you can leave them behind
and wander nonchalantly into the next room.

About this poem

When I am feeling uninspired, I peruse my pictures, looking for a spark. Today’s spark came from the picture, taken at Mass MoCA. Lest you think I am in a dark place, I am not. I am pretty joyful today.

Poetry makes lousy history, even when it is true.

Tom