History
is overflowing
like a closet
bursting at it seams.
Creaking loudly
like a wind tossed
ship floundering
against
the waves.
Where are you
bunker boy?
In which bunker
do you play?
Did your Tonka tank
just roll away?
Is your cap gun
out of pops?
Madam Defarge is
knocking at the door.
Focused on her knitting,
fueled with her rage.
The tumbril wheels
are moving
from the bunker
to the blade.
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