I can hear the drill alarm
grinding loud in a Midwest tank town.
Crouched beside me, head down,
Rory Fiocchi whispers under his breath,
“This time they’re gonna nuke us.”
White knuckling the school-desk legs,
fear pangs my solar plexus,
as I wonder what kind of radiated eggs
will appear. It’s not recess. Mute,
we leave death to the professionals.
A family still hangs here in the dark,
like sick dogs, over the loot of a dozen
canned goods, toys and a transistor radio,
waiting for the nuclear fog to lift.
Stark silence drowns out the noise.
The previous owner enjoyed
this old root cellar. It keeps produce
cool in the winter, but not frozen.
He preferred radishes year round,
you know. That’s the beauty of it.
Posted over on her site Willow Manor
Listed as #2 over on Magpie Tales 47