a tourist is an ugly thing, a stupid thing
-jamaica kincaid
the queue, in front of the museum,
curls like a multicultural python,
as rumors of a wooly mammoth replica
stir the crowd into a coffee grinder
of expectation, and a broken rastaman
straddles the widest step
with a haggard smile
and a tattered backpack,
looking like a wooly prophet.
spilled ketchup makes acne mounds
on pressed polo shirts, jeans
drip from a stale, soggy breeze,
tykes squirm and grownups shuffle
as passing buses make a newborn ice age
impossible.
finally, the museum doors open
and the crowd begins its sherman march
through the massive lobby,
as the replica of the wooly mammoth
looms ever larger, staring down the crowd
and wishing that it too
was extinct.
