Rip vanWinkle heard them
somewhere upstate
buried deep
in October Kodachrome leaves
He told me this some time ago
when I sat, frog damp
lamenting the passing of by-gone days
weeping in his thick Dutch beard
So what? he said
If Oppenheimer regretted the very thought
of what he did
he was no God
was he?
I snuffled at the vision of pretty Lorraine
soaked in the bitter rain
of that last air raid drill
dried my eyes on brittle paper
advertising the latest trend
in air conditioned air raid shelters
Rip passed the aged clear white Genever
we drank and smoked some potent
Mohawk Indian weed
it helped erase my nuclear malaise
He put his arm around my shoulders
Besides, he said
voice thick and rummy as a Wal-Mart Santa Clause
I love the sound
of those damn things going off
beats bowling balls to wake the dead
and you can hardly hear
the kids in Hiroshima talking
I don't speak their language anyway
wouldn't know a word they said
***
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