Outside the grown-up museum sits, “The Thinker”. 
He only wants to think dignified thoughts,
important thoughts, thoughts that will imprint
like an artist’s signature on the memory of mankind.
But it’s difficult, because when he thinks,
his head is filled with iron and bronze,
not neurons and God.
                                              
Outside the children’s museum sits a little replica.
He has never seen or heard of this sculpture.
Yet, he digs his right elbow into his left thigh, 
his chin into his right fist, and then he thinks 
as hard as his maker will allow to envision 
patterns among celestial bodies, the mysteries
of Star Wars guys, Legos, ... his new, baby sister.

The expression on his face:
somewhere between contentment and falling asleep.
Yet he holds this pose
as if some world around him is about to make sense,
some answer has almost arrived. 
Almost.