A poem
The corridor, the one built along the old rail line,
is best before nightfall.
After that, only the park connector running parallel.
The museum is best on a Tuesday morning.
No one competing for the painting.
No one checking the time.
I imagine a man who goes then.
He stands in front of something—
I don't know what he sees.
These things are available.
The hours are posted.
I could, technically, be there.
I am not there.
I am in the car with my children.
Chinese radio.
Someone has to try.
At some point the morning will stop asking.
I will go to the museum on a Tuesday.
I will stand in front of something.
I don't know if that's when I peak
or if I already did
in a room I wasn't paying attention to,
on a day I thought was ordinary,
at an hour I would not have chosen.