Our house, 1876 vintage, sits outside
a village named for a Persian city
talked about in Revelations as a place
where things started were not finished,
place of image, not substance; in our house
I clunk through drawers of junk
like a dry drunk looking for a hidden bottle
of Old Grandad with a few drops
of ambrosia in the bottom, but in our house
junk’s not confined to drawers,
it tumbles out of closets, falls off
bookshelves, lurks under the couch,
sleeps under sheets of unmade beds;
don’t get me wrong, we’re not hoarders,
not boarders of the unnecessary,
we’re middlle-of-the-road collectors,
accumulating a cache of locks & bones
& bells & stones & stamps & maps
that whisper to us about the space & time
we’ve occupied here. Oh dear, pundits
tell us to grab two keepsakes to hold
in the coming catastrophe. Two?
just two to save, two things on my person
when the comet strikes and we’re  blown
to smithereens?  Still I try and so glide
past a table stacked with folders of odd lines
of verse, then ascend the stairs to God
knows where…oh, it’s my old workout room
and it’s forgotten view of the garden;
amidst the stationary bike, Nordic flexor,
dumbbells. isometric exerciser bars, there’s 
the double chest of drawers, full of clothes
I swear I’ll someday fit into again;
I believe my beloved objects are in the top left,
so I rummage through, desperately throwing
aside my Artic cool shirts made in Vietnam 
with ZE*X technology and my pants,
Hydrofreeze capable in case I’m ever stuck 
in Antartica…alas, I can’t find my two precious icons
…they must be here…My God, now CNN says
we have 45 minutes before the big bang.
Good Lord! Where could they be? Suddenly
I feel their invisible tug; sweating and panting
I tear open the bottom drawer on the right,
it’s full of a half dozen jeans with authentic
knee holes gaining value which I heave out
onto the floor and thank God there they are,
my two darling objects sitting calmly
all these years, 19 to be exact: my retirement
watch, gold with gold chain, without hands,
given by the apostle Paul, the one from the bible,
who had visited Sardiz to preach about getting
things done…and here’s the other item of veneration,
my wedding ring, from both marriages, hidden 
quietly, without display or fame, without expectation.
only the circle of continuation 

When its alarm starts blaring I throw my android
out the window. I’m aware of breathing,
of standing in our antique house with everything 
my long line of double helix has brought me,
I smile and descend the stairway to the kitchen

There you are…roasting tomatoes & frying apples