My wife and I waited for base housing in a narrow apartment
on the second floor
of an old fish factory in Keflavik. Kitchen with European appliances,
a living room we filled
with an Advent turntable and Bose speakers from the PX. Moody Blues,
Pink Floyd, Eagles. Our bedroom
looked over the bay towards Reykjavik. We faced our bed to
the moon. Hung a mirror
on the bedroom wall and a painting my wife made of a worker
with long curly hair
in a hardhat decorated with an American flag. Added lopsided pottery
we turned at the crafts center.
One Saturday we returned from market with herring in cream,
lamb chops and fresh bread.
We could see our breath. Steam from fish factories hung low in the cold.
Wind off the bay kept the smell
away from us. After lunch dishes suddenly rattled on the drain board,
The mirror and painting swayed on the wall like pendulums.
Out the door. Town still there. Puffs of steam still rising from fish
rendering. Intact. For a time.