Fallout (Crank 3)

of Grandfather

if I get sick too?

Who will take

care of me?

No Aunt Cora to

tuck me in bed.

No Aunt Cora to

bring me soup,

steaming cups of

tea. Ugh. Soup.

Just the thought

makes me hurl

again. I hurl till

I’m food-empty and

there’s nothing

left in my stomach

but putrid air.

ALL HURLED OUT

Shaky. Drained. I poke my head

through Grandfather’s door, see

he is dozing. Sounds like a plan.

I wander into the living room, turn

on the TV. Lie down on the couch

to not watch the History Channel.

Some boring show about some boring

monarch in some boring century.

My eyes, weighted, close and I slip

toward some deep pocket of dark

space. Warm here. Comforting, with

a low buzz of canned boring voices.