It starts in other countries, in other states, in other cities. We see it on the news. It doesn't affect us. When it happens to somebody we know, we grieve for them, but we won't look them in the eye.

Only when the pain and surging, suffering tide of the escaping masses comes to break down your door, will you then say, "There is no shelter here. This is MY home, stay here no more!"

And they will all cry,
"No, it is YOU that has no shelter here! Why did you look away when they went for your neighborhood?"

Yelling back as you remind,
"Did you not turn them away the same as I, to deny them brotherhood?"

By then it's too late.
Misunderstood, we run but can't hide.
There will be no shelter here.

Waiting for the big restart.
Imagining a corner pocket with the lights off, all drinks served room temperature. Harmonica in my pocket, an acoustic leaning on a seat made of worn leather. No politics, no war, no religion, no John Lennon songs necessary. Just empty homes and never-watched, stocked pharmacies. Walk-ins preferred, no prescription necessary.

Boredom would be our only enemy, bibles our note paper. God packed up and left. It's a great neighborhood to raise your kids.
Nobody needs a bomb shelter when the bombs have all fallen.
Sitting in a lawn chair, with a good friend and no cares, watching nature retake her world.

I am waiting for that day to come.

The difference between a civilized society and anarchy is accountability.