Escalation

In the depths of the Cold War, a whole lot of us thought, not necessarily often, but from time to time, about living always perhaps no more than half an hour from something like this.

A meteor fell last Sunday night,
As happened when each star was thought a god,
And myriad priests would sacrifice to those
Who might see fit to send such omen dread;
But this one plunged last Sunday night
At Tel Aviv,
And none who watched could once believe
A prayer would make this spirit leave.

A flower bloomed at Tuesday's dawn,
As wild ones did in Neolithic sod,
When man had not yet learned to name the rose,
Yet sometimes left it in a friend's last bed;
But this flower bloomed with Tuesday's dawn
On Bucharest,
And roses were on no one's breast --
The dead don't lay themselves to rest.

A puppy whined, this Thursday noon,
As dogs did when the mammoth heavy trod
And man, their new friend, taught them barks brought blows,
While soft entreaty might earn love instead;
But this one whimpered Thursday noon,
In Bangor, Maine,
And wondered, as he retched again,
Why he was shut out in the rain.

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