Mist


Believing we would be safe,
hands clasped on our heads,
knees dug into the hardwood
classroom floor,
we readied ourselves for the bomb.

Today's kids rush headlong
and unprotected by plump fingertips
towards weapons of mass destruction,
return, knees dug into stiff body bags,
hands speckled with Mideastern blood.

Budding angels, clipped by a different future
than Ike and Ozzie Nelson prepared us for.

Charred wing tips flutter into my backyard garden.
Misplaced halos clatter loudly along my street.
Those days of our own childhood make-believe
have slipped into the mists of time.

Like the Edsel.
Like starched crinolines drying
in stiff circles for the prom.


Pris Campbell
2007

Art: Poster from the Fifties





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