In the Museum


There is a balcony that runs above the exhibit.

Someone must have been leaning over it


as they scratched their head

or tightened their loosened pony-tail,


for a hair detached itself from a scalp and fell,

and for once, did not land on a carpet


or a shower drain or a street where it would become invisible.

It landed on a Tyrannosaurus rex’s claw.


I want to find out who it belongs to

because personally I would like to know if part of me


was being exhibited under spotlight,

in contact with something 75 million years old.


I point the hair out to you and you smile and say wow, yeah.

And in that wow, yeah you recognise all of this absurdity.


So I do not need to write any of it down,

but you know I will anyway.