Building with Its Face Blown Off
by: Billy Collins
How suddenly the private
is revealed in a bombed-out city,
how the blue and white striped wallpaper
of a second story bedroom is now
exposed to the lightly falling snow
as if the room had answered the explosion
wearing only its striped pajamas.
Some neighbors and soldiers
poke around in the rubble below
and stare up at the hanging staircase,
the portrait of a grandfather,
a door dangling from a single hinge.
And the bathroom looks almost embarrassed
by its uncovered ochre walls,
the twisted mess of its plumbing,
the sink sinking to its knees,
the ripped shower curtain,
the torn goldfish trailing bubbles.
It's like a dollhouse view
as if a child on its knees could reach in
and pick up the bureau, straighten a picture.
Or it might be a room on a stage
in a play with no characters,
no dialogue or audience,
no beginning, middle, and end--
just the broken furniture in the street,
a shoe among the cinder blocks,
a light snow still falling
on a distant steeple, and people
crossing a bridge that still stands.
And beyond that--crows in tree,
the statue of a leader on a horse,
and clouds that look like smoke,
and even farther on, in another country
on a blanket under a shade tree,
a man pouring wine into two glasses
and a woman sliding out
the wooden pegs of a wicker hamper
filled with bread, cheese, and several kinds of olives.
No, I'm not going to write about Ukraine or Gaza tonight, although Collins' poem lends itself well to these topics. There are innocent people dying all over the world due to the ravages of war. Thousands of them. Men, women, children. Young and old. War doesn't discriminate.
Meanwhile, in my first world existence, I had to hang around my house this morning for the cable guy to show up. (Can I call him the cable guy if I don't have cable anymore?) My router and modem decided to become enemies at around 11:30 last night, and I was up until 2 a.m. trying to fix them. I wasn't successful, so I called for help from a technician.
When he showed up about two hours late, said technician poked around a little bit. Tested all of my devices. Replaced my modem. Reset my router. Got me back in business. First world problem, I know, but it was pretty annoying.
Tonight, I hosted an online open mic. Only two other people showed up, and one of them was my wife. Despite the scarcity of attendees, it was a really good evening of sharing and revealing with people I love and care about.
Speaking of which, my niece and son had a down day at home, since I had to work. I didn't force them to hike up a mountain or push them off a cliff into Lake Superior or make them go hunt Bigfoot. One of my son's friends came over in the evening to hang out with them. Abby is an artist, so she took some time to sketch and draw today.
The world is such a strange place. While I'm going about my little life in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, other people are fighting for their lives against bombs and bullets. The United States is fractured by politics, and my house is filled with laughter and love and creativity.
Saint Marty sometimes forgets how lucky he is.
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