THE NEIGHBOR’S WAR
Through my kitchen window I can watch
war flashing and flickering on the big TV
inside the living room across the alley.
Hands deep in suds, I swipe my Swedish cloth
slowly around the sink full of dirty dishes
while buildings crumple under orange light
cast by exploding bombs. A child’s face
in a scream gets magnified, a woman runs,
tanks plough through the ruins of someone’s home.
Planes fly over. Politicians with big heads
shout words I can’t hear with lying gestures.
Commercials interrupt, some cartoon bears
dance across a stage as they eat yogurt
and there’s a new electric car to buy
Then an oil tanker blows up, or else a cave.
We’re in the desert. No, that’s heavy snow.
What country is this? What year? What name
do they give this war? It’s been going on
for many years while I stand here cleaning
my glasses and plates and silverware,
preferring the sink and clink to the dishwasher.
Voting doesn’t help, outrage, street protests,
all useless. It’s the Iliad. It’s WWI,
it’s Korea, Suez, Vietnam, Iraq,
cities I can’t pronounce, borders, checkpoints,
militias, refugees, insurgents, drones.
I can pull the curtain, and stand at the sink
looking at cotton blankness, but it doesn’t stop.
Nights the neighbors are gone, the black row
of their unlit windows might soothe me,
but they’ll be back, tomorrow, to turn on the war.
WALKING BACKWARDS
Farther from the ground
than I was back when I learned
to walk forward in baby shoes
toward my father’s knee,
I’m careful, going slow
as I take my first step backwards.
Each step needs some thought,
as my heel hits the floor,
and the dining room recedes.
Walking backwards isn’t easy,
but sharpens your mind, they say,
but it’s easy to tumble.
What I see gets smaller.
What I don’t see gets closer,
ready to strike me down—
a narrow, crooked bookcase,
wobbly lampshade, the hat rack
looming behind me with claws
Dare I go outside?
A cigar store owner in debt
walked backwards from San Francisco
to New York City on a bet.
Car mirror attached to his chest,
he looked west, but moved east,
earning twenty thousand dollars.
I have no mirror, but already
I’ve reached my front door.
Shall I shuffle out to the porch
and lumber backwards
down the sidewalk to the park?
Of course it will take forever,
and I imagine the normal walkers
passing me with odd looks.
Then a friend I haven’t seen
in years runs panting by me
with her withered apple face,
and another who’s dead now
high-fives as she rushes ahead
and I take more steps back
bumping into others—
Dean, then Tom, now Ray—
impelling themselves onward
to where they don’t exist,
but I do, for now,
trying to keep my balance
as I toddle in reverse
through time and space,
humming a hopscotch verse
to keep my feet light
as I stagger back past college
past high school, kindergarten,
backwards from Peoria
back towards that young couple
in a Chicago apartment
applauding my stumbling walk
from playpen to hassock
as I reach for a toy lamb.
with a ribbon around its neck
held out as my happy reward
for crossing that infinite space.
