"The Thinker"

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Poem written from the point of view of "The Thinker" statue.

Submitted: March 30, 2010

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Submitted: March 30, 2010

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Frozen
With eyes forever fixed in the same location
I think

I think about all the times
Those stupid birds
Have crapped upon my head

About how I cannot even shout
Or make an obscene gesture at them

I think
About how
I always have to wait
for some sleazy underpaid janitor
to clean it off
sweaty and stinky
but at least he has a home to go to
when this is all over

“however”, I think
“this museum, is my home”
as it has been for over a century now
and I spent that century
observing

Watching the museum staff
Get fired
Grow old
Or retire
Eventually hearing talk
of their passing
All the while I watch another being hired
I think

“Where is my Auguste Rodin?”
The one who carefully constructed me
Like nobody else could
Who took the time to get to know me
Beamed upon my bronze and marble exterior with pride

But also
The one that cursed me
Giving me inarticulate limbs
And choosing the title
The Thinker
Instead
Of the poet

I think
About how I can not even scratch my nose
About how I would like to grasp this spider
Entangle him in a web of my most poetic thoughts
And then kill him
But I can only watch, as he laces his web upon my eyelid
Obscuring my view

Everyday I think
About the attractive young women
That pass by
Attractive, at least,
Until their husbands, or many kids waddle their way into my field of vision

I think
As I tower over their small, meek bodies
if I were only able to move
I could take down her beefy husband
With only my rock hard pinky finger

I’d make her feel at home at my museum
I often think
But those fantasies are usually interrupted
As her toddler proceeds
To clamp his drooling toothless mouth around my toe
I feel violated

I think
About how the security guards pull him away
Saying don’t touch
But maybe
One needs to be touched
Or at least needs another’s company

I think
About how the internet is taking away my visitors
My inquisitors

In my presence
They once marveled at my magnificence
significance
Now they’re all
Typing “the thinker” into google images

And I’m sick of it
Sick of hearing tsk tsk
From snobby little hypocrites
And pompous balding art critics
that tilt their heads and say
“I’ve already seen this”
But my head stays in place
Thinking “you’re all just big idiots”
This
Is
Ridiculous

They come
they go
In busloads

And stare
But they don’t really care
Those goth kids just glare
While preppy chicks play with their hair
It’s more than I can bare

From little kids on field trips
To teenagers with fat lips
I knew I had to get hip
Jump ship
Before I sank
in their sea of ever changing language
Nowadays I refer to it as slanguage

Because
Kids
Of this
Generation
Think real art is video gamage
And that this field trip
is the lamest
and I know I am no longer
as famous

but their company
keeps me sane

and as I sit here
in the rain
freezing
I think

Why
Am I
Naked?
Will somebody, please, get me a pair of size 73 pants?
But here in France
Nobody will even give me a second glance
Not a chance

I am left alone again
With my fist forever clenched against my chin
And I think


I think of the loneliness I feel
When the museum closes
But also how I look forward
To watching the rats pour out
Of their holes in the corners
Eating the scraps on the ground
Left behind by visitors
Missed
by janitors

Now
I am comforted
knowing rats cannot grasp the fact that I
am only a statue

and they crawl
wriggling with excitement on my stone cold flesh
warming me
like the hands of my sculptor once had.


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