Kick 'Em When They're Up

Modern Conveniences

The news arrives at 2 a.m. — 

a man in a hat, a war, 

the familiar architecture of catastrophe 

dressed in new colors.

We knew this was coming. 
We have always known. 
The bookcase holds its patient dead, 
Parenti, Postman, all the ones who said exactly this
to no particular effect.
 
The children are grown. 
The house does what houses do 
when the noise finally stops — 
it shows you what was always there 
underneath the noise.
 
Which turns out to be the question 
you never had time for, 
sitting with the answer 
you can't find on a Sunday night, 
 right about everything, 
arrived nowhere.

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