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A poem with a title too long to fit in this field
To an Archaeologist 400 Years In the Future
Exploring My House, Which Was Perfectly
Preserved in Volcanic Ash
Please, come in. With your small hammer
and soft brush, come in. You will find
everything in order, more or less,
though I wish I’d had more time to clean.
As you chip your way carefully into the kitchen
you’ll find the glasses in the cabinet above the sink.
Please help yourself, though I have no idea
what you might prefer to drink.
Considering the circumstances
I don’t recommend opening the fridge.
I’m trying to reassure myself that you won’t mind
all the papers and books strewn about
on the coffee table, the ottoman,
pretty much everywhere really, now I think of it.
If you don’t get stuck on figuring out
some pattern to why they are arranged this way
I’m sure they will assist your research
into how we lived, and what
was front-page news four hundred years
and one week ago.
There is more enjoyable reading in the bedroom,
and personal documents, you’ll be interested to know,
are in the locked filing cabinet in the study.
And under the TV is a real artifact, an old
Atari game system which even has a game
where you can play a tiny pixilated
archaeologist who dashes through Egyptian tombs
nabbing ancient treasures, until he succumbs
to the attacks of sacred snakes, lions, and bats.
Don’t worry, there’s nothing so dangerous in here
unless I have left my shoes out again
for you to trip over.
And somewhere around the house—
cross-legged on the couch, lying on the bed, perhaps
hunched over a bowl of cereal at the breakfast table—
will be my absence, a me-shaped hole
in the ashy rock.
I am sorry I missed you; I’m sure
you’re a fascinating person to talk to, and after all
we both have so many questions.
Exploring My House, Which Was Perfectly
Preserved in Volcanic Ash
Please, come in. With your small hammer
and soft brush, come in. You will find
everything in order, more or less,
though I wish I’d had more time to clean.
As you chip your way carefully into the kitchen
you’ll find the glasses in the cabinet above the sink.
Please help yourself, though I have no idea
what you might prefer to drink.
Considering the circumstances
I don’t recommend opening the fridge.
I’m trying to reassure myself that you won’t mind
all the papers and books strewn about
on the coffee table, the ottoman,
pretty much everywhere really, now I think of it.
If you don’t get stuck on figuring out
some pattern to why they are arranged this way
I’m sure they will assist your research
into how we lived, and what
was front-page news four hundred years
and one week ago.
There is more enjoyable reading in the bedroom,
and personal documents, you’ll be interested to know,
are in the locked filing cabinet in the study.
And under the TV is a real artifact, an old
Atari game system which even has a game
where you can play a tiny pixilated
archaeologist who dashes through Egyptian tombs
nabbing ancient treasures, until he succumbs
to the attacks of sacred snakes, lions, and bats.
Don’t worry, there’s nothing so dangerous in here
unless I have left my shoes out again
for you to trip over.
And somewhere around the house—
cross-legged on the couch, lying on the bed, perhaps
hunched over a bowl of cereal at the breakfast table—
will be my absence, a me-shaped hole
in the ashy rock.
I am sorry I missed you; I’m sure
you’re a fascinating person to talk to, and after all
we both have so many questions.
no subject
I keep re-reading this. It is quite enjoyable.
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