whispered secrets, I guess;
we couldn’t hear them.
I wonder if they expected this
years back, Army engineers
pouring concrete in a block:
an art show, a bench for
sweethearts & deep emotions,
a place for hearts and children.
Or did they expect a shell
from an enemy battleship, then
death amid dust & bent metal?
We bothered them, so
the lovers moved; we stared
at the panoramic sea, briefly,
and nobody thought to ask
the pillbox what it’d seen.
August 2019
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