The Wax Museum

After closing hours
You stroll its dim, wandering paths,
The orange glow of memory’s candle
Illuminating the frozen figures,
Figures which, quite unlike you,
Do not gaze pensively

At the dusty, empty spots on the shelves.
The tragedy is,
The place looks great-
Elvis Presley looks heroic
As though he couldn’t even feel the prickling
Of the tiny tailor’s pins holding his suit up.

A grinning James Dean points
Across the room towards Amelia Earhart,
Like he found her after all this time
Lounging on her shiny pink Cadillac.
Now, much to your amusement
You’re as lost as she was,

Finding yourself leaning on Colonel Custer
Who was meanwhile busying himself
Sticking out his bristly moustache at the truth.
Even the WWII bomber
Strung up from the rafters
Looks like it could fly right out of here,

Right out of your life
Wherein, you’ll notice,
You’re slowly being covered in wax yourself,
Wax dripping from a candle
Which shuddered in anticipation
At reaching its end.