At the End of the Short Hard War 

 

He awoke with a start and shaking himself

to ward off the morning cold,

he arose from his bed on the concrete shelf

to see what the day might hold.

 

After coaxing his fire to life, he checked

how much coffee was left in the can

that he’d found in the back of the trucks that wrecked

moments after the conflict began.

 

He considered the coffee more than he deserved

(though it wasn’t the best he had tasted)

as he pondered the things that had been preserved

after all of the rest had been wasted.

 

The brilliant white flash, the shock of the blast

and the subsequent fireball,

all the horrors he witnessed were more than surpassed

by the fact he’d outlived them all.

 

With his parka zipped up and a rifle in hand

he stepped cautiously from his abode.

All alone with his thoughts in a desolate land

through the massive destruction he strode.

 

For a very long time he had lingered bereft

of a partner who might meet his need.

And he wondered aloud was there anyone left

who’d be willing to harbor his seed?

 

That his future looked bleak with no hope of surcease

was a prospect he could not ignore,

yet took heart at the thought that at least he had peace

at the end of the short, hard, war.

 

Louis William Rose

January 2003

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