"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?