by Justin Sean
I won’t lie & say it went effortless.
I lost loves, such, 18 years worth spent
my head in books, my neck developed
one tremendous kink & adamantly tilts.
Perhaps it proves imagination
is the first casualty of dedication,
but I’ve something to show for the flood
of witticisms and O, multitude endearing frailties
stretching ghostly into vague history…
That is, without me, they’d run off
riding their best one-liners to death
beds. My thesis shuddered at the loss.
My labors resulted in a museum full of dirty windows
being curated in packing-foam; destination: Somewhere
(maybe the South of France)
We’ll soon be able to walk silently
down halls of mood-tinted lights
absorbing the collected panes
shutters, curtains & how
the world’s noted faces and the view
were affected in the looking. Each installation
bears a notice of significance: A selected time-line,
a major work to allow it context:
“Here’s the window of P— behind which he spent
his 40 days x 40 nights of mourning his dog’s demise,” & “A— watched
as her mother took aim at her father. Calculations of the silhouette
place the author in this exact spot.” (Here the patron can feel free
to place her shoed feet on the spot precisely marked.) After a moment
the voice takes up: “What looks a mess is really thumb-prints
made to look like mice heads to your right, the window of B—’s.
From it’s original vantage looking forever on a bricked alleyway.”
“Here’s where the line—timeless—was written: ‘Cats hate the water
but love the fish.’ We now accept this a maxim, but at the time
it was censored by the church.”
I suspect the curious will find weeks of joy.
Each room bleeding into a hallway lined with more rooms.
The collection of notable windows forever growing
expanding, looking—perhaps—back on itself!