Pieces

(By Sil, the 8th of July, London)

History still flows
And I’ll get swept away
Unlike a salesman
History doesn’t knock shyly
Unlike a thief
It doesn’t try its luck slyly
Probing at the cat-flap.

Spelled out and folded thin
The deluge spills in
Through an intentional slit in the door
With tardy eloquence
It blows over the soup of past hurts
If you attack it, tear at it and
Shove the pieces in the bin
It still beckons.

Two, eight, thirteen, twenty
Numbers attached to unrest
What to commemorate
What to forget?
How to avoid feeling like
I’ve tripped in the wings
And stumbled into someone
Else’s drama

An unrehearsed guest?