Plaques

Plaques

In Berlin, you might walk 
Right over them and never
Notice them, set as 
They are flush 
With the cobblestone. 
But even if you do 
It takes an effort to 
Stop and read them — 
The names (the last
The same, a family), the date
They were taken, where 
They died.
And even then 
It takes more 
Of an effort to 
Look towards the building 
And think of them
Some quiet winter
Evening before, the fire
Roaring, the boy
They’ve asked to play
Cracking his knuckles,
His sister standing 
Tall in the window,
Looking down at the street,
Wondering why 
You stopped.