inside the world's smallest museum
Before we entered, I thought of the possible artifacts inside -
a trove of pirate loot, an ancient map, Bigfoot's unquestionable print.
The word conjures the incalculably valuable, items ripe with myth nearly buried
were it not for an archaeologist’s fine brush and laser-lucid squint.
But behind the glass were fraying cereal boxes, ticket stubs, an ad
for aftershave. A newspaper caught the moment Clint Eastwood took a break
from filming, a train schedule accordioned next to it. And I wondered
how I could celebrate my own ordinariness, write captions for the tiny quake
that marked each rite of passage, elevate the relics as the lost art of living
they really are. How the dust would settle then, with a gaze this forgiving.