When the last one's gone they open showcases, put on
uniforms - typists dress as WAAFS - run to the tanks,
unlock caterpillar tracks, slide down cables into the
cockpits of the hanging Heinkel, Spitfire, the one
with the headphones who tears the tickets taps
a dit-dit-dah and the big WW1 Mark 2 turns in
its own length as a jeep with chewing gum colonel
cruises round the hall leaving the battle to a Sopwith
chasing a Focker across the ceiling, silent doodlebug
with caretaker astride, curator and guide in medics'
coats bearing the cleaner away, mop still clenched
in his fist, piercing a tank a shell makes pink spawn
of the archivist as it ricochets for ever until dawn
lights the windows, planes stop circling, medals
return, hair quickly brushed; the first visitor,
the ticket man frowns past him, outside, to the
haze of smoke from the breeches of the 15-inch
naval guns pointing across the Thames.