In July they dropped a dummy fat man, <br />to squash me, but I ran. <br />The tea lessons stopped, <br />each cup back inside the pot. <br />This bridge creaks, virus and tnt, <br />levelling its road, and still I wait, <br />for Bocks car, and its drive by. <br />Fires rage, trembling our school, <br />Smokey storms clogging the air, <br />thinning our breath. <br />I heard Big Stink flies low, <br />picking up negatives and mapping my home. <br />My sweet Okura. <br />He’ll radio back, Silver plate, Silver plate, <br />and they’ll dropp the world for what he wants, <br />no request denied this saviour. <br />Licensed to kill. <br />But my house, my family, please. <br />This August Okura’s first fire bombs <br />smoked and saved me. <br />You hawked your fortress, <br />selling death from its conscience, <br />hovering an hour in the cloud maze, <br />three lost strikes and you’re out, and off, <br />the circle R daubed on your tail, <br />in bomb squadron, gasoline pride. <br />I wondered how we avoided, <br />those three hundred daily raiders, <br />we were special, spared, chosen ones. <br />Our Shinto sky, a mass of blotting smoke, <br />so you moved on, and instead, <br />took my brothers in Nagasaki.<br /><br />Jerry Pike<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/tea-lessons/
