Kick 'Em When They're Up
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.
Comments
Post a Comment