By Kyle Hemmings

The dictator of a tiny but defiant nation declares he will drop a bomb within a mile radius of our neighborhood. He claims during interviews that our neighborhood is a hotspot. Perhaps there are undeclared gold ores under our artificial grass. The days tick loudly. The homely girl next door flaunts her small breasts. Mother becomes lopsided. She drools over breakfast. A school friend knocks on my head and asks “Is anyone home? You can come out now.” If the bomb falls, most likely it will fizzle and leak. We will play dead for years. Then, we will die.

Kyle Hemmings is a retired health care worker. His latest collections of poetry/prose are Scream from Scars publications and Split Brain on Amazon Kindle.


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