Birthday: January 9, 1940
by Earl Coleman

I am alone this midnight. Behind my head,
on makeshift shelf, a cracked black radio
of Bakelite, a clock. I’m 24. Each tick of my
Big Ben forewarns of our impending war,

entrapping me in martial tread. My radio
connects me to reports of massive forces
wheeling right and left; just now - Magnificat.
My lover, Marge, has gone, lights out.

In my bargain-furnished room, the blesséd
scantling fire warms. Outside, snow descends.
Sparks fly up the flue. Electric tensions freight
the atmosphere, their atoms seethe as in those

breathless moments just before we seize each
other tight, and drop what they’ve made dread-
ful out of sight. I lie in bed, considering my lot,
my pauper’s state. My curséd 24 has made me

ripe to pluck and yet my appled youth infuses
blood with joy and I must make my peace,
accepting that there is no peace to be secured,
no anchor, harbor, even here, no moment’s pause

for some reflection in the face of headlong
race of the inexorable clock. Chaos, revolution
wait, and we must beat our ploughshares into
swords, prepared to fight their wars, wherever

Generals thrust pins in maps, and take vile
liberties with flesh. While Marge and I will
have to kiss all night, all month, all year,
to demonstrate our clarity on what is vital here.