So the War is a Collectible

What a strange surprise
it all was, ending up
here I still remember
scrimshaw.
Not useful but somehow
handmade, detailed,
and executed
with extraordinary skill
by human beings.
We had a neighbor
with technical abilities
predictive in nature,
the way he brought
the right things home
each time - the rumors
to the working girls.
What were they that year?
How many times had we spoken
and of course, he was right.
With robotic self-centers
entitled to myths,
scrimshanders around
the world were
obscuring - cutting
then obscuring again,
we were running,
crouching defending
and cramming. While
the rest was up-ending
we were soul searching
and blame-laying, observing
from the roof
at regular intervals, checking
for patterns in the muse.
On the balcony jets left
with threats and promise.