Miniiature Museum

as it was described, we
hoped for small, a piece of plastic
siding, or perhaps a meager
doll house.

folks argued no, not at all,
but inside, yes, a million
tiny things, best observed
on tiptoe, hushed voices in awe
of skills so small.

puffy ladies humphed responses
as in church, the Latin lilt
creating an aura so deep
some forgot to wipe their shoes and so
left droplets on oak floors shiny
with residue from child-like feet,
made bare by dignity.

puff puff puff and few
could see it all: doll houses, filled with
trinkets, some wood, some so tiny
gnats circled like
airplanes waiting
for descent.

children borrowed pince-nez, adopting
the bent backs of oldsters, changing their style
to peek in tiny windows
where carousals circled wildly,
the little make-believe visitors
flying off, horses and dragons bucking
them to their doom, while kids screamed
like enemas, tracing the baffled
windows with shrieks of excitement.

after, the small-town atmosphere resembled
an ice cream social from the Music Man: kids licking
chocolate, a tiny marching band wound up
and kickin' Springsteen’s “Born in the USA,’
and moms, dragging their pantyhose,
too pooped to rest, waiting
for the shuttles to carry them home.