The bone itself, gone
a stunt double in its place
its owner’s family name recorded
on a little card behind the glass.
Maybe we think of fossils as
being all done with aging
and the ravages of time, simply done
and settled into a final rest.
Now recumbent on speckless felt
once removed, do the next million
years look forward to wearing down
that gouge made by a flint weapon?
Our bones today, somewhere between
the dust and the dust, and
maybe we can fancy ourselves
a million years removed from demise,
Our protesting bones, gone
substitutes pulling the day-shift
museum posers the lot of us, as the future
gazes curiously upon our mineralized remains.