I scare myself at the toy museum
which feels more like a mausoleum
a carpeted, air-freshened, place of the dead
where they’ve chosen to bury toys instead
puppets, bears, acrobats,
sailor babies, freaks like that
every toy with a curling caption
fixed expressions of stupefaction
staring through the dusty glass
at the aimless ghosts who whisper pass
in and out through a low-lit door
opening hours ten till four

the worst of it is a railway track
that runs the length of a case and back
the tiny figure of an engineer
one arm waving as he steers
in oily overalls, jaunty cap
neckerchief in plastic flap
cotton wool smoke from the tiny funnel
as he drives his train through a length of tunnel
emerges, waits, goes in reverse
back down the track he just traversed
ending up at the starting place
then setting off at the same, slow pace

he looks so happy fixed like that
cows and sheep along the track
painted houses, painted trees
everything perfect, permanently
his memory gone as he goes in reverse
the doomed engineer forever cursed
to twenty seconds of active bliss
the best he’ll ever know of this
we hurry back to the light of the lobby
congratulate the owner on her wonderful hobby
(but strictly between me and you
I’m worried she’s an exhibit, too)