Living in America

Saturday mornings,
my brother and I
balanced bowls of cereal
down basement stairs
before our parents woke.
Our secret life
with a button's push.
Crackling static,
CRT sizzling to life,
tiny dot
radiating out, center screen,
spreading like an electric ripple
across moments of hush, expectation.
Explosion of sound, sudden image.
Hot Wheels, Sky Hawks, Groovie Goolies,
Josie and the Pussycats.
Every week without fail,
in our little shelter, we nestled
far from those
who ran to fallout bunkers
in countries
broadcast nightly:
Angola
Guatemala
Congo
Vietnam.
Life raced around us
like B-52s streaked to Haiphong,
but we, covered in fuzzy blankets,
never felt the concussion
nor smelled the sulfur of burning flesh.
Though, tragedy could be seen
only a shopping trip away
if you raised your eyes
to meet the gaze
staring back at you, hatefully.
Him knowing, just a shade or two lighter,
he'd be the one
watching Mr. Magoo
and you'd be the one
plain shit out of luck.