Chambers

 

In the dark, they wait
propped up wax and metal
beneath the stitched on,
posed to remind us of
a key moment in our lives
on the evening news.

The silence is cut glass
losing its edge as
the visitors sidle in
past the cordon’s division,
point at the acid-bath,
and the piffling man.

It’s us intruding on
this wartime scene:
rations, blackouts,
and V2 bombings as
World War two trickles
to a sludge. History

is all-clear, neutered
suited, and shiny booted.
Its border guards usher,
us, the stragglers onto
the reproduction section.
We go all quiet.

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