The News Ending with a Riff
Mostly bad. And what isn’t is god awful
coming through the radio. You know this,
you’ve heard enough, but keep it low,
so as not to disturb the island fortress
your son is building. You are acting like
there is a place living hasn’t damaged.
If forest, if ocean, you call it Heaven.
If honeysuckle over chain link, Heaven.
A friend’s word, Heaven. And in Heaven
there is no news on the radio, not ever,
just songs he can mouth all the words to.
It’s not real, of course, but mostly
you play along, as if he doesn’t know
the world is full of terrible things, that you are
not wasting time digging moats, stocking
a forest thick with spells, or, stacking
sand upon sand, sure, sure the seawall’s
high enough to keep sharks out of the garden.about the author