write poetry

Rockets Red

Where we were when the bomb hit:
Left field bleachers,
Orioles at Yankees,
seventh inning stretch.
Imagine our surprise when
mid-verse into the National Anthem
the sky lit up with poisonous
green, and the automatic organ
with some other occasion in mind
continued its festive trill.

Next day, a helicopter in my neighborhood
hovered low,
dispersing pamphlets, tablets,
useful tips. Of course the sound sent
screaming figures scattering like ants.
You had to get close enough to
get your nourishment from
the beak of the dipped bird.
See that it only said:
U.S. Government Relief.

Last time, lights out
from Toronto to the Midwest,
I walked home over the Brooklyn Bridge
with a regal refugee named Hatshetsup.
She claimed she was a CBS news exec,
but I know an Egyptian queen when I see one.
Time before last,
I slogged through the smoke
downtown, checkpoints and photographs,
listened to music I hadn’t heard for years.
Called friends to hear how they were doing
over and over: did you see? And: can you believe?

End of the world or no,
it’s getting very difficult
to write with all these people running around.
But there’s always a bright side—
tonight, I’ll be the one cracking a beer
offering melting ice cream to neighbors.
Call me a role model in these
uncertain times. Call me
an old hand
because by now I know
better than to look for the stars
when everything goes dark.