I have not thought of war for a week.
Too busy.
I have not thought of missiles
steaming in silos
or how to take shelter
beneath three feet of earth
or what it would be like for my children
alone
if I die
in a world of fire and black rain.
I’ve been sawing birch, glueing joints,
sinking nails,
taking careful measure.
Old friends come to visit
sharing coffee, meat, wine
as their kids play with mine.
How they’ve grown.
How nice for one week
never to think
of war.
YOU ARE READING
Construction Zone
PoetryThere's dirt under my fingernails, sawdust in my hair. I'm proud to say I hammer nails. Install toilets. Hang drywall. Welcome to the construction zone. Note: I've had to "unpublish" a few poems from this collection because they are going to appear...
