"Boxes on top of boxes..."

Boxes on top of boxes on top of

boxes. A month till closing.

Everything’s neat and proper,

dotting our i’s and crossing

our t’s. Coats. Gadgets. Books.

Poetry. Poetry. Poetry.

In crevices, crannies, nooks.

Filling the space, and overly-

filling and spilling like light

out of a room or a chorus

out of a theater. They glide.

Vladimir. Marina. Boris.

Anna. What strongman could lift

any of them?! - But all?!

Boxes, like icebergs, drift

straight for the bearing wall.

I’m watching all of them, stunned,

as if its the last I'll see them.

When all of the art is gone,

what becomes of museums?

Doors that were never closed

are shutting. I’m scared to lose it.

The desk, at which I've composed

poems, is stripped of music.

Dust alone. Only dust.

Leaving no other remnants.

Whose home will it be with just

memories as its tenants?