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-

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