Museum Piece

The chair sits alone against the plaster wall.
Stark. Simple.
A warm glow on the wood.

To the Shakers who crafted it,
labor was worship.
The making a seeking of perfection,
Soul work.

I sit in the chair.
It is not meant for sitting.
Not any longer.
It is a museum piece,
not unlike peace,
Out in place for admiration,
but not for the risk of actual use.

Still. I sit. The museum is mostly empty.
Perhaps we as a people do not feel the need
for history. For remembering. For reminders
that work is worship too,
but only if we make it so.

About this poem

I love museums. But I have a bad habit of going in places I am not meant to go into, or, if it is open, sitting in chairs left unattended, looking behind the curtain. Like a child. I want to touch everything, as if somehow in the touching, I can feel, even absorb, some of the energy of the makers.

The picture was taken at the Hancock Shaker Village near Pittsfield, Mass.

Be well. Travel wisely,

Tom