We walk through the museum,
staring at the black and white photos,
reading the summaries.
The first apprehensions shock
with sharp stabs of grief,
the heavy curtain-fall of numb disbelief.
We move on to the next.
Each succeeding percussion lessens,
like thunder moving off in the distance,
horror turning easily into history.
At the end of the self-guided tour,
we are hungry.
We drive back into distracted lives,
satisfied that our short investment
in one sober stretch of yesterday
justifies our turning away
from it for the rest of the day
and the rest of our lives.