I’m up to my graying beard in library books
My eyes fall upon their Dewey Decimal digits
I blink in time to a choking cash register somewhere
The noisy flickering from an Edison bulb above

Particles of dust build up under my nails
I try my best not to touch anything (but do anyway)
The oils in my fingertips destroying almost everything
Like the potted orchids I buy women in spring

I never meant to be this poisonous
Only to surround myself with old times and
Be immersed in old feelings and old tastes
To eat and drink alone in past company

But here I am crawling into dusty drawers
In the basement of some grandmother’s home
Blanketing myself with golden medallions and
Jangling topaz earrings misplaced and misused

Shrunken heads and the leathery brown skin
Of taxidermied rodents and their families
We are all sitting Indian-style around a pile
Of broken and tilted Singer sewing machines

In all its beauty I breathe in penetrating scents
Of centuries old, thick and stale with wonder
I grab a spear and put on a few layers of armor
Standing on a metal block my skin grows hardened

I seep ever so slowly into a cabinet of curiosities
A permanent fixture to be traded from here to there
Within a museum of odds and ends I become a focal point
My eyes fixated on a dead star miles from where I am

05/13/2014

Posted on 05/14/2014
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