Preparation for an Elegy

For Doug

Afraid of the dark and tucked in bed, mid-century,

we prayed in clean sheets in America.

The grown-ups trumped hearts and spades at the formica

kitchen table, their laughter lulling us. Misery

stayed far-off, in the voice of Mr. Cronkite,

in the televised faces of people we didn't know,

switched off at suppertime. Cameras slowed

for close-ups of famine or napalm or riot,

and we'd stop our play for a story

our mothers were too busy in the kitchen to watch.

Packages dropped from small planes, rations

and tents sent in parachutes to soften the crash-

like this prayer and I'm so sorry

whispered to your parents' devastation.