In Case of Apocalypse
My room at camp rattles like
a bathtub full of gravel.
Too old for this place, the stink
of the chow line, the urine
haunted pool. I’d like to go home
but authorities have labeled me
subversive, taken my keys
and wallet, canceled credit cards.
I could walk away, but what’s the use?
Rain wrinkles tarps and soddens
the vegetable garden where youngsters
croon over lettuce and kale.
At breakfast no one speaks to me.
The others clot in chatty moods
while I crouch beneath a thundercloud
and nosh my corn flakes in private.
I haven’t been convicted
but my sloppy habits exposed me
to neighbors who warned the FBI
that I kept my hands in my pockets
and hoarded spiders and roaches
in case of apocalypse.
I can’t return to that dreary room
with its framed print of Moses
parting the Red Sea. Instead
I sit on the porch and observe
teenage couples sprawled on the lawn,
indifferent to the rain. Their crimes
don’t coincide with mine. The gloom
rises from the earth rather
than fall from the sky. I’m sure
I’m guilty: every bone creaks
and every muscle thrums with glee
as the invisible stars rain down
split atoms to embalm me.
China, China, China
Midflight a woman turns in her seat
and demand I compare the air view
of Harvard to the Roman Forum.
The Forum’s too fractured and old
to see clearly from the sky while
Harvard’s too glossy post-literate
for eyes as dull as mine. I sigh
into my airline cocktail, which
sighs back at me. The woman,
convinced I’m withholding
vital information, demands
I match the Kremlin with the Mall
in Washington. Different colors,
I explain. One is tombstone drab,
the other is tombstone cheery.
She harumphs in her seat and signals
the attendant to double my drink
in hopes of plumbing me deeper.
The airplane drops through a cloud.
A raft of angels strums instruments
shaped like tropical fruit. They wave
and I wave back. The woman asks
to whom am I waving. The cloud
dissolves in a single bright tear.
Now she wants to know whether flying
over London compares to viewing
Cleveland from a comparable height.
Cleveland exudes a lake-sweat
that would compromise prim London,
I explain. We’re circling Shanghai,
waiting for clearance to land. I look
into a sprawl of gnashing industry
and the woman wants to know
what I see: China, China, China,
and none of the old Tang poets
alert enough to advise me.
William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire, and teaches at Keene State College. His most recent book of poetry is The Suburbs of Atlantis (2013). He has published three critical studies, including Robert Lowell’s Shifting Colors. His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in many journals.