But what did we expect? The trees, uprooted, lay
on their sides, their tiny nests, so long hidden
from our peeping and peering,
broken and scattered. The four winds,
like poker players after a long night,
are clumsy and bitter. But for the one,
quiet, almost forgetful, his pockets heavy,
driving, driving, your crumpled address in there
somewhere, and steering, as is his wont, poorly.
Steve Kronen’s most recent collection is “Homage to Mistress Oppenheimer” (Eyewear Publishing, 2018)
[See also: The NS Poem: The Health Check Crapshoot]
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This article appears in the 19 Mar 2025 issue of the New Statesman, The Golden Age