Newsmen call it the Cuban Missile Crisis
Teachers say it's the end of the world
At school, they instuct us to look up
and watch the cuban cursed sky.
Search for a streak of light.
Listen for a piercing shriek,
the whistle that will warn us
as poisonus A-bombs
zoom close.
Hide under a desk.
Pretend tgat furniture is enough
to protect us against us perilous flames.
Radiation. Contamination. Toxic breath.
Each air raid drill is sheer terror,
but some of the city kids giggle.
They dont believe death is real.
They've never touched a bullet,
Or seen a vulture, or made music
by shaking
the jawbone
of a mule
When i hide under my frail school desk,
my heart grows as rough and brittle
as this slab of wood
that fails to protect me
from relality's
gloom.
Written by Margarita Engle
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The Life Of Poetry
PoetryThis story is filled with poetry each being dirrerent and if you would like your poem to be featured please feel free to contact me on Instagram at strawberrycheescake_charlie
