I spied a traveller from an antique land:
To be precise my own curated past,
Crammed with indexed clutter, thick with dust,
Albeit in the odd display a card,
Handwritten, which explains: “This exhibit’s
Now been binned; it was on loan but crumbled
In visitors’ rough, thoughtless hands. Things do.”
I think I’m going to blank this traveller,
Although I spotted him just now, mirrored
In another case, its dusty smeared glass
Preserving 60 years of random trash,
Memories of sunshine on a bus stop,
That kind of crap. I’ll run out to the park,
Filled with salt statues looking the wrong way.