This poem was originally published in The Asexual.
Before he’ll unlock the museum doors,
he asks you to change your thinking.
You promise enthusiastically, emptily,
knowing what he wants to hear
but not understanding it at all.
“Once I let you in, admire the relics,
compliment them,” he reminds you,
“but accept their obsolescence.”
You can’t help but think them pretty
even stashed in dusty boxes.
Months later, the papers report arson,
callous destruction of beautiful property,
and you weep for long-misplaced relics.
He sheds tears for your ignorance, but breathes
relief, unburdened of long-unwanted antiques.