Postcard from Searsburg

    What was it you wanted he calls out the door

    as I walk toward his house， which tilts uphill.

    I just wanted to ask， I start to say — but he

    cuts me off， tells me he doesn‘t talk to strangers，

    says that I should go away. I tell him I like

    his old car， I name the year and model，

    and soon he is shaking my hand，

    inviting me in for home-brewed beer.

    After my second and his who-knows-

    how-many-pints， he tells me he‘s ready

    for the government when they come.

    He takes me down to the cellar， filled

    With enough food for years， calendars

    for the coming one， enough water for

    about a month. He shows me the vegetables

    he‘s growing under lights， but I can’t see them.

    I swirl out the door like the windmills

    we watched from his den， ten spinning，

    one broken. I stand in his driveway

    and feel them， their slow whipping roar.

    The town‘s elevation is unmatched，

    except by a few of its people， higher

    than kites from the slogans they write

    on the outside of their dwellings，

    which no wind has managed to blow down