Half of a Pizza in the Nuclear Apocalypse

by Nicholas Holt





I begin the way I always do, after

a six o’ clock drive during daylight

savings time, slamming gas station

sodas in the backyard bunker, twisting

the knobs on the radio until I find

a station that sounds like linen being

crumpled in the large hands of a mountain

man. It sounds like the music that dust

mites listen to, a lullaby for the cans

of beans and apricots twiddling their fruit

thumbs on the steel shelves.



I have decided that when I hear the bombs

whistle I will save no one, except for

one very lucky pizza delivery person,

who will not be tipped in the traditional sense,

but with a forty inch thick bubble of steel

and half of a pizza in the nuclear apocalypse.

I wish I were joking, but there’s only one cot —

so twist that dial o’ angel of better ingredients,

kick off your no-slip sneakers and dance

to the music of the new world, our world,

and tell me how the old one was doomed

from the moment the Three Wise Guys brought

leftovers to Jesus’ rage-in-the-cage-and-danger-

in-the-manger-and-welcome-to-the-common-era-

I-hope-you-dressed-sexy-for-it-birthday-

christmas-pizza-party.





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