Poem: Liberal Parousia of A Colder War

During the first Cold War

he looked for exits, and in ’80

stuffed nuts and heirloom

seeds and a 4-wheel drive

into his cheeks

and died quietly

into the wilderness. For 20

years he was safe, tended his garden,

waited for nuclear Parousia.

At least I won’t die

like a stockbroker
he told the cold starry sky.

And he waited. And the end

didn’t come. And in the end

he came off the mountain

and died with the rest of us.

This article appears in February 2014.