The museum gates clank shut
in silence and no wind
is heard in corridors
just the cries of lost children
and biscuits crushed into carpet
and wardens touching fossils and smoking.
but sailing the lake, back and forth,
year on year, waiting for pension,
Curtains of dust hang like walls.
Doors open and get locked.
Sandwiches hide in drawers next to coins and relics
and some wine, left over from Christmas, is still OK.
The queues are long this morning.
A dirty suitcase, left by a tramp,
is kicked by a visitor from the Netherlands.