December twenty-second,

twenty-thirty-two, the very day

I turn seventy, you catch me

staring up into the night sky

watching for that dark chunk

of space coming to flatten a forest,

Bockscar a city, or just bullet by

through the silent, airless dark.

For my lucky seven decades

I have lucked out—not booked

that flight, not worked in that school,

not lived by those parched woods—

so after a card, a blown-out wish,

and one unwrapped gift, I’m out

scanning the sky and wondering

if my streak will hold, though

at seventy, I know no matter what

happens, it’s all over but the shouting.