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The Minimalist Museum by Edward Hirsch

 

 

I am driving past our house on Sul Ross

across the street from the minimalist museum.

 

I am looking up at the second-story window

where I gazed down at the curators

 

carrying their leather satchels to work

and the schoolchildren gathering on the front lawn.

 

I spent my forties at that window, stirring milk

into my coffee and brooding about the past,

 

listening to Satieís experiments and Cageís

dicey music wafting over the temple of modernism.

 

I chanced a decade at that window, imperious

to the precarious moment, the broken moon-

 

light flooding over the neighborhood trees,

my wifeís moody insomnia, my sonís fitful sleep,

 

and sacrificing another five years, another ten years,

to the minor triumphs, the major failures.

 

 

 

Per Contra Spring 2007