poem submitted to "Mr. Charm by the Rolling Stones" poetry contest
Robert James Liguori, sponsor, October 9, 2026
The museum occupies the skeleton of an abandoned casino. Visitors enter through a revolving door that continues turning after everyone has passed through. In the first gallery, a smile drifts inside a glass case~ not a mouth just the smile itself. It brightens when approached, dims when ignored. Twice each day, curators feed it compliments through a narrow slot. The signboard reads: Once common. Population decline unexplained. Beyond it, conservationists attempt to reintroduce eye contact. The specimens survive for several seconds at a time, then startle and vanish into the walls. Please do not tap the glass. In the Hall of Courtship, an unscripted conversation circles beneath the ceiling. Its silver scales flash between shadows. Visitors stand perfectly still, afraid a sudden movement might frighten it away. No successful breeding pairs have been recorded in decades. The museum's central exhibit occupies an entire wing. Only guides are permitted inside. Many refuse a second visit. The museum catalogue assigns it a simple name: Mr. Charm. Witnesses disagree about his appearance. Some recall a handsome charismatic stranger. Others remember a woman in a fur coat. A few remember only laughter from somewhere nearby. Everyone insists he knows something impossible: The name of a childhood dog. The nickname no one uses now. The dream abandoned at nineteen. Researchers remain divided. Some suspect telepathy. Others believe the Mr. Charm feeds exclusively on loneliness. Each year the exhibit grows larger. Each year attendance increases. No correlation has been established. In the museum's basement, discarded skins of charm are stored in drawers. They resemble dried leaves, old valentines, and once, according to archival notes, an entire summer evening. The final gallery contains no exhibits~ only a wooden bench and a stranger waiting beside it. Most visitors continue on. A few sit down. When they finally emerge, they recognize everyone but are recognized by no one. Museum staff assure guests this is a known side effect and poses no lasting danger. At closing, the lights go dark. The stranger remains seated. Each morning, there is another bench.
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