Nothing Speaks to You in the Night

Camus in curtain pajamas
Marooned and waiting out the war,
Imagine that in your rocker,

Listening to soft pedal steel
As the wind tosses tumbleweeds
Against the glass doors of the house

You rent against the wind and storms,
Since even the desert has storms,
And no little tourist canyon

Is immune for being remote
From storms on some days and earthquakes
Some nights and the same plagues that find

The remotest towns in the world.
You have nothing to write about
Behavior during war tonight,

But you can understand the joy
Of a sick man who’s been given
Warm pajamas made from curtains.