Classical Fallout

I came across this poem while cleaning out an old suitcase. It was written in 1988, when I lived in Pasadena, California. I must have had one hell of an argument with my boyfriend, LOL! ~ C.




I have always wondered what it would be like

to wake up the morning after the atom bomb.


(You move mechanically

into the kitchen

boiling water for coffee.

Perhaps a bit of Mozart

as a backdrop

to our bitter, uncivilized silence.

You shift uncomfortably

upon your white-hot throne

biting the snarl deeper

into your lip

maintaining the Grand Illusion of war.)


Radiation on my fingertips,

I move to touch your hand

to place the bow on the string 

that only yesterday

brought such sweet music.

But now this concert hall

holds only poor players:

violins argue with cellos

flutes plead

your hand withdraws.

The room is heavy with classical fallout.


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