Hurricanes and Hand Grenades

Nobody did anything about it.
Not that anybody really cared.

Come to think of it,
I’d never seen his face before.
He wasn’t shocked, as most would be,
but calm, serene.
Nothing to say, nothing unusual.
No glints, no glares.
No locked eyes, no stares.
He’d just gotten his paycheck,
he was out on the town.

There were no signs,
there never are.
Dogs smell hurricanes and hand grenades
comin’ from miles away.

Author: Aidan Badinger

Wharved.com I am a poet. I write poems. Titles and subjects and subsequent readership are all part of one fragmented figment of our universe, and it's nice that we take it so seriously. Hopefully the craft remains and grows stronger for our children.

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