We walk through the museum,
staring at the black and white photos,
reading the summaries underneath them.
The first apprehensions shock us
with sharp stabs of grief,
the heavy curtain-fall of numb disbelief,
buffeting ocean waves.
As we move on to the next display,
and then the next,
each succeeding percussion lessens,
like thunder moving off in the distance.
Horror, it seems, turns rather easily
into history. And we say no! and
O my! and interesting.
At the end of the self-guided tour,
we are hungry, our feet a little sore.
Returning to our comfortable cars,
we drive back into distracted lives,
satisfied that our short investment
in one sober stretch of yesterday
somehow justifies our turning away
from it for the rest of the day
and the rest of our lives.