Operation Fishbowl
1962, that day when your father shot an armadillo
with twelve gauge and slapped his crotch in excitement.
Meanwhile, somewhere north of the equator, to protect
from flash-blindness or cancellation, a man in a suit
hollers at gas masks to inspect and load. Fire. Launch.
Your father watches this later on tv, after mounting
and soaking in the tub. He scoffs only briefly at the lack
of mushroom clouds, saying "the soviets done better,"
sipping on a Budweiser. Tomorrow, the president
would announce the end of testing, and your father
would be drafted, leaving you with a twelve gauge and fear.
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