At The End Of The Row

Black white and bare, the photographs; stripped of their significance by the shining floor and lifeless walls.

She walks into the museum late, almost does not get in.

And she knows where she’s headed: to the black white pictures in her long dark dress, black floor white wall room.

In all her uniformity with the palate of the pictures, she bears unspeakable eccentricity.

The people in the photographs are long dead, and she the necromancer.

She only looks, she does not touch; touching is wrong.

At the end of the row, the picture is empty.

Museum closed, the lights flick dark; she takes her place.

Bowing her head in mourning.

All the haunting frozen moments, and she among them waits.