after Stanley Kunitz
Sister Maria in third grade homeroom
told us to disregard the rumor
that the San Andreas fault
will level The City’s masonry
including our Chinatown schoolhouse
Thursday morning, after which
there will be no school,
no tests, no homeworks due
forever. Channel 7 interviewed
a Caltech seismologist with
wavy hair and glasses thick as
those I’m wearing now who
said, Don’t trust psychic
predictions, but it’s always advisable
to store water and provisions
and take cover under a door frame
when the Big One—which
I’m not predicting for Thursday morning—
comes. Feeling sad Wednesday night
that the oxtail stew could be the last
meal I’d share with Grandpa,
who sleeps in a brick masonry
walk-up, I washed it down with
my mother’s melon soup and,
without even bidding Grandpa goodbye,
withdrew to my room where
I couldn’t diagram the sentences
assigned, so sure was I
there would be no school
anymore. Thursday, weeks, years, and
Grandpa passed. I left to attend Caltech
and came back. Small ones. 9 / 11. Two
wars. Three Giants World Series.
Still, no Big One. Look for me, Grandpa,
in a seismic retrofitted building
stocked with water and provisions.
I’m the grim boy in a faded tee
and molasses glasses scribbling in bed,
glancing at the door frame
once a minute, listening
for the coming of your cane.
