For my 50th birthday my daughter Phoebe made me this card. She insists on spelling “Mama” this way, which inspired me to write this very unrhyming poem.
I Am a Museum
I am the MOMA.
A museum of modern art.
I break from tradition.
My collection is constantly growing.
I have carefully curated exhibits and secret back corridors.
Everything in me is not beautiful. In fact, some things about me are simply conversation-starters. But never say I’m not interesting.
I present an impressive facade. My insides can be cluttered in places, barren in others. One thing is consistently true: there’s nowhere to sit down and relax.
I’m influential among my patrons (two small children, a husband, an elderly dog, and two cats). But one would never call me an influencer.
I reward loyalty. Visit me repeatedly, and you’re in the club forever.
I want you to ask questions about my works of art. I hope to inspire critical thinking.
Now, you call me modern. But I’m quickly sliding into antiquity.
At the end of the day, I’m just glad to still be in the game.
I am a museum.
I hold a rich history inside me.
