Monday, August 26, 2013

Nukes by Travis Blair


The newscaster sporting a fifties pompadour
announced North Korea’s threat
to unleash nuclear holocaust
onto California’s coast.
What did he say? She sat up in bed
wearing wide-eyed alarm.
Nukes coming in from Pyongyang, I yawned.
But not until this evening.
She slid out of bed, pulled on jeans
and a mustard color Venice Beach t-shirt.
What are you doing? I asked.
I’m not going to die here naked
in bed with you, she ran my comb
through her punked pink hair.
What difference does it make?
I pulled a Gauloises filtered from
its lapis blue pack and lit it
with my Zippo.
I have my reputation to protect!
She let go her most indignant snort.
No one is going to know, I exhaled.
We’ll all be dead.
My girlfriend back in Texas will know!
She rolled her eyes.She has no idea
we’re sleeping together.
I think she knows, I grinned
like a Cheshire Cat.
Get dressed, she grumbled
tossing me my pants.
I think we ought to have sex again, I suggested.
After all, this may be our last chance.
She flashed me that look I dread
more than nuclear annihilation.
I stood up and reluctantly put on my pants.

Author bio:

Travis Blair lives a mile down the road from the University of Texas campus in Arlington where he earned his BA in English Lit. After a long career in the movie business, he took up writing poetry. He has two poetry books published, Train to Chihuahua and Little Sandwiches. His poems also appear in various literary journals in the U.S., England, South Africa, and Australia. Travis has two daughters, five grandkids, and hides from them frequently in Manhattan and Mazatlán.

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