Imagine, they would fill The shelves of shops just after the armistice, Row after row for sale or show, though few alive With Reichsmarks enough to buy them. Kindling, Probably, then ashes up the chimneys, wind-borne, Then nothing but soft soot on the foreheads Of the children as they trudged off to school . . . Questions . . . Questions, and suppositions. And now they sit in front of us, the children, At their desks, hands folded.
Imagination is a terrible gift.
Cultivate it accurately. Steve Orlen teaches creative writing at the University of Arizona. All rights reserved.