father Smith again.
our paths seem to continually cross.
he's in the liquor store
loading up
on vodka
from Finland.
he used to like
Smirnoff, but there are
no more Russian vodkas
on the shelves
because
of the war.
hey, he says, pulling
at his collar.
hey, i say back.
he looks worried.
beads of sweat roll down
his face
and his hands
are calloused from
praying.
for the bunker, he says,
pointing at his shopping cart.
do you have a place
to go
if they drop the big one?
nah.
why bother?
i'll just embrace the light.
i tell him,
then put my gallon
jug of Tanqueray
on the counter.
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