Count up from Hiroshima,
1, 2, 3, Alconbury, England,

7, 8, 9, 1957, Air Force,
you 20 at the time,
no idea what half-life means.

Barbed wire, guard towers, fenced,
sentries out and in,
enlisted men put nuclear bombs --
never used -- to rest.

They pack warhead, nose cone,
four wings, fins,
gloves, their own clothes,
into barrels, stencil them red,
"bomb parts," seal everything tight.

You learn to watch for Commies
who will sneak out of fog
but before being overrun,
you must dig trenches --
manual says 2 feet is enough --
roll barrels in, open or not,

use long poles, ten feet,,
push earth across, retreat,
let intruders tramp mounds
red from the heat.
Over fifty years go by,

friends, bomb-tenders back then,
have cancer, have died.
Your schedule next week,
two sessions of chemo,

radiation treatment five.
Maroon fog creep in
on little atomic feet --

you count down from 100,
certain to find sleep.