Inside my mind’s museum there are relics of ancient jealousies refashioned into newly minted gratitudes. Huge dinosaur bones of can’t we all just get along. Bullets taking anger management classes. Dog-eared pages of our violent history rewritten into words of love and peace. Inside my mind’s museum there are foggy San Francisco nights with poems staining their teeth like strong coffee. Chords to unwritten Ziggy Stardust songs. John Bonham drums with a bass foot as heavy as the infinity of outer space. Inside my mind’s museum the ghost of Rosa Parks wails the righteously mighty decibel of equality while sitting at the front of the cosmic bus, refusing to get off until she gets off on the sweet song of let freedom ring.