How did it get like this?

Up late, again. I’ve noticed when something’s worrying me, I will stay up late, keeping vigil. Tonight, my task is to make sure the world doesn’t blow up.
And now, a poem for your entertainment.

On August 6, 1945, President Truman ordered the bombing of Hiroshima, Japan. The U.S. forces affectionately named the nuclear bomb “Fat Man.” August 9, a second bomb, “Little Boy,” was dropped, this time on the town of Nagasaki.

A year later, George W. Bush was born.

He has recently declared that he will not rule out the use of nuclear weapons against Iran. “All options,” he tells us, “are on the table.”

“All options are on the table.”

On the Man

Born in the shadow of power,
in the shadow of Fat Man, that
little boy must have wondered
what kind of bombs there
would be when he
took charge.

Ducking
and covering
weren’t enough to
stop this boy
from wanting to reign
destruction.

On the Bombing

I thought there might be
some poetry in this news.

But there is only quiet, only
humming of traffic out my window,
murmur of neighbors’ voices
next door, selection of
fruits and vegetables at
the corner market, and
fresh clean water, dripping
from my tap.

Only the fourth generation,
but our sins have grown
impatient.