I am a collector of artifacts.
Of paintings by Thorn, Canino, Syvertsen.
(Yes, printed, paper, books)
arranged by subject or author or poet,
Frost, Mosher, Dickinson, Ferguson, Bohjalian,
war, cancer, African detective agencies…
lined up in my book cased study.
FDR, Lincoln, The Pedagogue, The Boss.
Of my journals,
since September, 1968,
my life in ink,
joyful, sorrowful, hilarious,
forty previously empty books
now filled with my life, my poetry, my prayers.
Of the books I am reading now,
on my Nook,
about our ever changing History,
(isn’t it strange that History changes?)
and our ever evolving present
and our futures outlook…
And these Nook books
with increasingly irritating regularity,
that all my artifacts are irrelevant
because they are not saved
or in some Cloud,
or in some massive data collecting intelligence
(which is slowly becoming conscious of it self,)
And, the ultimate insult,
since my world, in its material form,
I am irrelevant
because my contribution is not to the universe,
rather to “my own little corner
of my own little room”!
My collection of artifacts that is me!!
Do I care?
Does that creature in the cloud care?
(Not yet,) anyway.
But, will it?
Well, maybe if The Creator of the Clouds
We shall see…