Where's the Museum

where we can hang the lute purchased unwisely on a driving trip to Italy, where we can shelve the bins of old movies, the heavy boxes like velveeta bricks chunked with slides of this campsite, that Easter, the roses again, new hybrids, new to our mother's gentle OhWalters, where some docent will placidly open the jewel box and unwrap the Purple Heart and the chamois with the rust bloodied bullet and show to the children see this small and it blew open a shoulder see it was saved it was morbid it was necessary it was this small just right for our museum