Grenfell Tower

 

To keep tenants warm

or impress rich neighbors,

builders wrap a London tower

in sheets of shiny tin,

and post notices that warn:

“Stay inside in case of fire,

and close your doors.”

 

Whisked up twenty floors

fire came this hour from outside in,

for the London tower is higher

(twenty stories to the roof)

than the fire man’s tallest ladder,

and the cladding, no proof

against Armageddon.

 

 

*

 

Every river, its sault.

Where you gather on market

days, or pray in temple pew,

you couldn’t be the target

of doom, but come, still, to bombs

like all unwelcome fate, hidden,

one of many, lit back-to-back

 

in towns like Parachinar; a photo

of ruined streets will show

just what can happen,

you’ll see, just watch the news.

So too in Baluchistan–

the crucible of guns–in Orlando,

Cincinnati or Syracuse.

 

*

 

Once an old oak held a platform

in its gnarly arms

where we children played.

With gumption, we added a wall

or two with our kit of tools,

but spiders soon swarmed by the dozen

to spin, and drove us away.

 

What comes even as we sleep?

On auto pilot, one big ship

rams another, midnight. As men

sleep in their bunks, the sea pours in,

flooding the sealed rooms where,

un-waking, un-watchful, they’ll be, later,

when we count the drowned.