In our apartment building,
when I was a child,
old Mrs. Greta Shultz horrified me.
We lived by an airport,
every whining sound of jets
sent that creaky lady
scuttling under the kitchen table,
duck and cover every time,
air sucked in, moans--
for her an American Luftwaffe,
Slaughterhouse Dresden memories--
her mind recoiling
at the screaming sounds
from her younger girl day/nightmares.
Despite heart-felt pleas,
Greta was safe under the table.
After years of marriage,
we rescued a dog.
She had been caged
for months in cold wire.
We gave her our warm and safe home.
But when my wife ever went out,
Butter would mewl by the door,
shiver and shake
till the door opened,
de-plane on my wife's lap.
No coaxing mattered.
You can’t unlearn old tricks.
Originally published in The Bezine