We Have Nothing To Fear

 


Two men sit in a Yellow Cab, smoking
with the windows up, in front
of my house
or someone else's,
it is snowing.

My boys are up these stairs, the heat
rises to find them boxed and painted, one face
for each moving square of light
among the mounted swords.

In the basement there are white ribs of pine,
a hammer hangs on one, a yellowed note
from the handyman, white
boxes in corners.

In my kitchen, a stockpot
of leek and chicken bones
bubbles large and layered,
my tapping spoon a bell.