My husband’s worked for many years
For not a cent – he volunteers
At what we think is “his museum;”
Tuesdays were when you could see ‘im.
He enjoyed his job as “greeter;”
Meeting people made life sweeter
And he took tremendous pride
In helping those who stepped inside.
For history’s his favorite thing
And so this job was not a fling.
The only time he missed a day
Was when we sometimes went away.
Was he rewarded for his work?
A party? Plaque? Some other perk?
No, sadly, how they’d recompense
Explains my lack of present tense.
A new regime has taken reign.
The “greeter” job they didn’t deign
To stick with; now instead, there’ll be
“Explainers” in each gallery.
But these positions – don’t ask why –
Were open if you did apply
And passed an interview, despite
Your years of service. That’s not right!
You know, of course, how this did go.
My husband got his answer – “No!
No room for you – that means you’re out!”
Could age be what this is about?
We’ll never know and yet, methinks,
This situation really stinks!
I still can’t get my head to wrap
‘Round what, to me, was like a slap.
Write me with full meaning not incomplete,
Do not put me on the door of meaning
Then under the pretext explainers..
Raises a whirlwind of criticism.
Do not crowned me by poems,
Then by letters tighten me to the bed of thoughts.
Do not extracted sweet talk from my lips,
Nor liquefied musk from my neck,
Do not mobilize armies of language in my ground,
Nor warble your poems,
My doors are closed, wrapped in silence
You are too close to letters
Too distant from heart.