“A person called Dzara B. sent me this poem by Charles Reznikoff to The Red Hand Files. It’s powerful and speaks a strong message to these uncertain times.”
That’s my husband. He is home all the time now. He reads. He writes. He wears a suit. He plays the piano. He reads more. He wears a suit. He writes more.
“Okay, babe,” I say, “Shall I put it up on The Stuff Page?”
“It’s a gift. So, yes, it would be kind,” he says.
“Okay. Why are you wearing a suit? It’s lockdown.”
“Well, you never know…”
“You never know what?” I say.
“I don’t know. You just never know.”
“You can’t be too careful,” he says.
“Too careful of what?”
“I don’t know. You just can’t be too careful.”
He’s sitting at the kitchen table. He’s smiling at me.
“I love you, babe.” That’s me.
“See? You can’t be too careful.” That’s him.
Not because of victories
but for the common sunshine,
the largesse of the spring.
Not for victory
but for the day’s work done
as well as I was able,
not for a seat upon the dais
but at the common table.
By Charles Reznikoff (1894-1976)