Like many people, I have trouble understanding the seemingly endless push for war. At the same time, the stories about the Ebola are heartbreaking. Today I started writing about my constant concern that writing is an indulgence, a luxury that it is almost useless in any real way. Think of Detroit, having to consider selling off its art to pay the bills, and think of how ridiculous it would be to preserve art at the expense of peoples’ lives. So I write instead of volunteering somewhere to work for peace or to educate people about preventing Ebola. In fairness, I have to ask myself how much space poetry takes up in my bunker. Here’s “What We Need for Survival.” If it’s not up yet, it will be soon.