You might think your home was a battlefield,
the way a bass shiver chills the wall
when a shell thumps ground,
a broad dent in the Earth
some unknown distance away, old dust
beaten from the house like a rug shaken out.
It’s not so much that initial jar,
but the anticipation of the second,
braced against an impact you can’t see,
can’t time with the mental addition of seconds.
If only you could fast-track sleep
by a careful closing of the eyes, an exact stillness
of the body, a perfect cadence of inhale, exhale.
But again—the thunderous shudder,
desk lamp quaked to the floor,
and you rise to steady the room, piece by piece.
Remember the sigh you breathe
when the tremors stop,
because you can still walk to the front door,
run your hand along the oaken grooves,
twist the brass knob,
and welcome quiet across the threshold.
On a comfortable couch, recalling a once close proximity to Fort Riley, KS
September 3, 2014
"The Bombardment of Hartlepools (16 December, 2014)"
Oil on Canvas - 1915