The Museum of the Second Adolescence

can be found
on the path of least resistance.
Just past the career cul-de-sac.
On the Bridge of Weary Sighs.
 
Admission is free,
and that’s half the battle.
The gift shop is cavernous,
and no one ever exits.
 
Exhibitions are regretted
the instant they open.
Undiscovered diaries,
forever phosphorescent.
 
The museum beckons
from the world’s uncertain corners.
Peers over fences
at arrested developments.
Clings to our memories
like a heavy dream at dawn.

Chris Hemingway


 
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Chris Hemingway would be pleased to hear them.