Mum draws the blackout curtains—
don’t want to attract doddlebugs
when we sit down for dinner.
They come out and sting
on nights like this. I wish
our dinner had more flavor, more spice.
Sissy was still groaning from gin,
when the long whine whistled the air,
flocking us simple pigeons
to the Anderson shelter outside,
our metal haven, the beds divided
the room into bread loaves.
Once my ears work again,
we go out.
The house in one piece still:
I’ll have to dust the debris
before we have tea tomorrow.
My parents are planning on company.
One bomb landed close to home,
I tell Baxter’s soft ears,
his head all a pile in the front yard.
It punctured a lorry next door,
ripped into it like a ham. I do miss meat,
the rations leave one ever so empty.
Not sissy, though—she is heavy,
from her boy-o, Matt Hervishire.
Spotted them in Miss Helshank’s bed,
about where they found the old bird herself.
That’s how it is everyday: eggs
for breakfast, and a blitz for dinner.
—
Paul Piatkowski lives in Winston-Salem, NC with his wife and corgi. He teaches high school English. He has had poetry published in U.S. 1 Worksheets and The 2River View.
