Monday Poem

I look at my grandchildren and know that, being so young, they have little
serious understaning of Covid and wonder what parts of it they’ll recall.
Or will it linger…? How vague a memory will it be. What sort of meaning
will it have, one like mine of world war?

The Meaning of the Thing

             —May 8, 1945

Suddenly Mom ran out the door,
she’d yanked it’s stubborn latch-side free
bolting into open air
thick with sirens, bells,
the horns of cars, ecstatic yells,
everything that blew that May day free,
crammed with audible relief,
cacophonous confetti,
in a joyous requiem for war:
the death of hell

Mom sobbed kneeling in the drive
and thanked the god who’d just undone
his bloody recklessness by fiat & surprise,
suddenly, in May— coincidental with
when life re-bounds

and I said, Mom, what’s wrong,
what are you crying for?

—and she: It’s done!

—and I:  What’s done?

—and she: the War!

…… as if I’d known the meaning
of the thing at four

Jim Culleny