I hide mostly in confines now.
Not fearing death, but life.
Lone in the light I can manage from matches
and torches, paranoid and anxious.
Topside today, no home tomorrow.
Still I rise to see the sun.
Yank the chain tether to test for rust.
Wander into the wastes in search,
mostly of water, and then for trust.
It's simple enough with a gun.
I look East, but think twice and
travel to the West for the wind of peace.
In old buildings close to my bed and blankets,
I find a young boy with his sister, and while
she's older and dressed in hardened leather,
the clasp on her hip holster's shut tight.
They're looking for sustenance. I watch with
my eyes just over the window sill
as the two cling to each other
through the rooms.
They find nothing. Turning to what's left in their packs.
Cans of tuna. Pork and beans. Fumbling with
knives to stab through the shell.
Is it a good day to die?
I wonder,
thinking of the can opener
I found yesterday.