Unit 66

A Poem

Along the corridor we walked,
My boys and I, and as we talked
Of this and that, their Dziadzia slept
His intravenous sleep. We stepped
Into an elevator (one
Of us pressed “M”) – a quarter ton
Of grief and worry going down
As, ninety years away, a town
In southwest Poland hears the drone
Of Heinkels, in an old head left alone.