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.