Museum

The museum is large. It is a labyrinth of hallways and stairways, of landings reached on uneven feet, of atriums cracked open by the sun: fresh fruit, filled with golden light. The glossy map you purchased with the publicizing clatter of your coins--62 cents exactly--reveals only a series of rooms with vague names and arrows that promise wings expanding somewhere, off the paper. You are persistent--even when you are lost--and it costs you nothing to wander deeper, sleepless into the collection. The place is open (and empty) until ten o'clock, a new initiative. It is the "People's Tuesday" and everything is included in the pittance you have paid, including my invasive, leering gaze when our eyes lock inside the Egyptologist's recreation of a tomb. Following my lead, you too rub the denim that contains you. I would fuck you right there. Let the feckless security guard standing outside listen. I have my doubts that he--even with that dapper uniform--would recognize the grunts and moans for what they are. Poor, poor, virtuous virgin. And you still have a stomach that plumbs your seasoned ass. You still have teeth enough to smile (and laugh). By morning, I will have installed the doubt that will devour you. You'll drop out of school, wreck your marriage (and your car). Someday, you too--stuffed with the embalming fluid called love--will find your way into the right diorama, on the right floor, in the right corner, of this musty old museum.