Poem of the Week

In the Museum of Death the guests are eating lunch

made from a dead man’s recipe.

They use knives and forks invented by the dead.

Everyone sits in a room

built by those who are no longer with us,

everyone speaking words the dead have made.

Everything is archaeological:

prayer, toilets, table manners, cash.

Even the air was once breathed by the dead.

Look how impatiently the curator taps

his fingers on his desk. It’s getting late.

Very soon the guests will have to go.