I come closer each day to rushing out of the bomb shelter.
My allies hold their breath, and my enemies prod me on:
“What’s a little saturation bombing to a stud like you?” they say. “If God loves you, you’ll survive. If you don’t look up, the bombers won’t see you.”
It occurs to me that my enemies send more energy my way than my allies.
Each day there’s less oxygen. The heat from the bombing sucks it straight out of the ground. But I’m the only one down here who needs to breathe.
What sort of allies don’t need air?
What sort of enemies?
I stop threatening to throw open the hatch. My allies and my enemies continue going about their business. They shore up timber and write in their diaries, and somewhere in the distance, a violin plays Stravinsky.