Postcard from Searsburg

　　by Wyn Cooper

　　 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