Ark

Remember warehouse depositories of used books

Where people like us, readers of lost lines

Wonder at pages dissolving in the scent of must.

Entire shelves of someone’s dreams still

Enclosed in cellophane wrap like unopened gifts.

How many artists and poets lived out the quiet

Desperation, yet to be discovered by a patron,

A newspaper magnate, a rich widow? Who

Knows the meaning but inhabitants of the ark

While all the world swims unaware?

The powerful, at least those elected to office,

Sound eloquent, passionate, into the lens

In a mostly empty chamber, into midnight,

Speaking for the record, and changing sides

With the tide. Yet don’t be disillusioned.

These monuments sculpted in stone, in wax

From candle-lit moments or in twittered text

That evaporates almost instantly give breath

While we wait out the flooded time so hope

Slowly crafts the vessel to carry us home.