Museums, like monasteries, 
are silent sanctuaries,
until someone presses the elevator alarm,
or opens an emergency door,
or a kid throws a tantrum.

Yesterday, the emergency door
opposite me, clearly marked
Emergency Door. Do Not Open
was opened six times,
which meant the alarm was set off six times,
but only one kid screamed all day.
                        

I know you, a woman said to me in Trader Joes,
You work at the Museum Bookstore.

		I recognized her. 
		She was one of the volunteers.

I’ll never forget you at the photography satellite store 
the closing weekend of 'Pictures for the Press,’ she said.

		That was one of my favorite shows— 
		Robert Capa’s picture of the Normandy beach landing.
		Larry Burrows ‘Vietnam War’. In color. 
		JFK and Martin Luther King's assassinations… 

Your little store was noisy and chaotic—
babies crying, people shouting,
a long line in front of your cash register,
and you stood like a calm monk 
quietly helping everyone.
She bowed her head in a namaste gesture.

		Interesting what we remember. 
		When I think of that show
		I only recall the violence of the photos.
                        

“Hello,” I said to Harry aged four.
“What do you say?” said his Mum.
“Thank you,” said Harry.

“Good afternoon,” I said to Nathan aged six.
“What do you say?” said his Dad.
“I’m having a good time,” said Nathan.

“Don’t touch anything! This isn’t a supermarket,” 
a young mother told her children, “Oh look 
at this pen. See how the tram moves?”
“How come you’re touching?” said the oldest kid.
“Don’t ask stupid questions,” 
and she marched them out the store

“Do I look like a bank?” a Dad asked his son.

“My wife bought these things for our sons
about an hour ago. The boys told me 
they’re going to throw them away 
when we get home. Can I return them?” said a man.

When her mother said Rio de Janeiro 
the English way—knowing I wouldn’t understand 
the Portuguese pronunciation 
(with a ‘sh’ somewhere),
six-year-old Laura from Brazil, 
thought her mom was silly.

“Dad, please can I have a book?
My brain is hungry,” said five-year-old Daniel.

“Why are we spending all this time shopping 
before we see the museum?” asked a little boy.

“Now we’ve concluded our negotiations,”
said a boy of about nine to his parents, 
“can I have this from the Museum,  
plus all the stuff at Disneyland I haven’t seen?”