When I was a child
my father used to take me
to a field by our house to launch
model rockets into the air. My sleep,
then, was haunted by fallout Soviet communist.
We’d watch the grey streamers streak their way toward
what, he assured me, was not heaven.
Driving to some nowhere field (too fast to late)
and blue-light, flashing, a moment and then
tasting the hood of my car while the band-radio
mutterers explosive and terrorist.