The Heritage Centre
‘OPEN’ means almost empty, she finds. The heating gurgles;
traffic slogs past, its groans now dulled by the windows and blinds.
She steps to the faceless mannequins, tight in their dull-bright taffeta,
then over to an oak-rimmed table cabinet, where she finds
a tersely-labelled miscellany of snuff boxes, gemstones, watches –
and among it the dull wedding band her great-great-grandmother wore,
though how could she know? She taps the glass. Her spectacled eyes flit over
it, and pretty much everything else, then draw her back to the door.