Sandstone and Cinder Block

 

Somehow the Russians

have become worrisome

again,

as if it is 1982

and I am 10 years old

wearing a haircut

circa 1978.

They've taken up

a mildly threatening position

somewhere off the coast

of Delaware, headed north.

"The first thing

you would see

is a great flash."

I remember, 

as a fifth grader

I stood in our basement 

fearing the worst, 

knowing damn well

Ohio sandstone 

couldn't withstand

a nuclear blast.

Now I am older.

My cinder block basement

appears no safer.

Will I never learn?

Improbable Hope

 

In late fall of every year, when frost threatens,

I place a few plants in a basement window for winter,

in an act of suburban optimism, as if to illustrate

that hope still exists.

Then, in the middle of January, I'll find myself

in an old armchair down there, 

my ornery cat, T-bone, on my lap listening

to Talking Heads records.

As he sleeps on my knees, I look

at those plants struggle to survive

on a day or 2 of partial sunlight per week

and think to myself,

What chance have any of us got?, and maybe 

sing a bit as the cat's ears twitch slightly,

"I wouldn't live there if you paid me."

The last two years,

in these most inhospitable of conditions,

on a cold shelf next to the electrical box,

a primrose inherited from my grandmother

blooms improbable flowers.