A Piece of Fabric from the Hindenburg

What remains of white cloth, pâtés à la reine, and Dancing, the world seen through cinema-sized windows, Floats on the screen, a singed swatch, evidence The sky’s still the limit. A souvenir Filched from the scene has the sanctity Of rarity and renders any buyer exceptional By connection, a small investor In a whopping dénouement. So I might own A share of swastikas on the tailfins—of why The folly of hydrogen, when one had helium, A noble gas. O the humanity!, The radio announcer screams in the stale newsreel, Thunderheads clotting the breeze over Lakehurst, The airship lolling after the brilliant burst. So I might afford a little responsibility, If only in the sense of stewardship, As if it were they, people I could see Enduring their spectacular agony, Sought after, held onto. This could be A shard from the Kristallnacht, a lock Of Christ’s hair, a fraction of any kind Of misfortune as long as it’s extravagant. Enough that someone would know, would care.