trying to get to the modern art museum
on a local train, i get off at the wrong station

an older man and woman, strangers
to each other as well as me, they discuss
where i need to go. the thin retired woman
tells me how brave, to venture
in that direction, after all, she has lived
here all her life and never gone
beyond her stop

no one seems to know where the museum is

i ask a young woman waiting for a bus,
she directs me back, from the direction iI came.
trudging up the hill passing two youngish men,
who make remarks that tell me
i’m in a place not meant for tourists

as casually as i can, i climb down the stairs
towards the modern museum, (a converted hospital)

the same moment i enter
i feel as tired as any patient on their
first walk after an operation

an exquisite corpse

conceptual works on paper
lift my spirits and the café
gets me through the rest of the rooms

vegan soup. it is the first
time I’ve heard the word vegan since
beening in ireland. her peculiar look
lets me know again, a tourist i am i am

if i wasn’t so tired
i’d feel grand twirling
in the middle of an organza skirt
hanging from the ceiling.

before the guard catches me, tries to rub out
an attempt, i snap photos of rocks on the wooden floor
light drizzle on leaded glass window

miniature wooden play set 
beside sick children’s beds, helps
them heal faster

my worried father in the room
pretending to play

gold ball on feather pillow in another space