a stroll through the graveyard
of what’s left, too scared
to even whistle,
the markers propped up at each turn,
all bearing the RIP for
what might have been,
could never have become
and what I knew
could not last if it had,
the silence of an office
where any word might
bring about promised Armageddon,
the sword of Damocles
hovering just an inch over
the back of my neck,
raising the hair and the feel of steel,
no need to say in more than once,
the list of requirements
I must live my life by or perish,
this is no longer a matter of self-control,
I have no control,
I have only the need to not respond,
while I feel as if she parades here,
the allies marching through Paris
or Berlin on VE Day or lonely Japan
poised under yet one more Hiroshima,
let loose at any infringement.
I breathe deeply and hope
I do not move too suddenly
or disturb what might set it all off.
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