Night Guard

That museum night guard and the games he played to keep himself awake, light, a gold square from the ceiling window making the darkness look blue and the air taste like silver.

The mummies were no longer humans, the dinosaurs no longer magnificent, all those bones anchored to the floor and half of them estimates.  He’d touch them sometimes, say these are the bones of a dinosaur, but they felt no different than the banisters on the stairs he stepped down forty times a night, one-thousand-six-hundred steps down on his nightly rounds, touching things that shouldn’t be touched.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s