The Place The Artist Lives

Few people make it this far into the museum,
the place where the bodies lie, the remains
of who you once were, petrified now,

hard as steel, beyond remaking,
a sculpture of steel and stone, catching light
at dawn and dusk.

Few people make it this far. And no matter.
Dead things are not everyone’s cup of tea.
Better the first doors, where the new art is hung,

always changing, caught in the bright lights,
Bright things. Beautiful things, or at least interesting,
the place the artist lives, except

for mornings and dusk.

About this poem.

A poem about the far ends of museums and the past of people. Often what is left behind is best left behind. But now and then, we revisit, as if we are going to find something new.

The picture was taken at Mass MoCA. The Massachusetts Museum of Contemporary Art.

Tom