right hand pointing

We sweat in radiation suits despite the breeze,

clutching M16s until the stars arrive

above the lights of Alameda

sleeping with its windows open.

A crane fishes bombs from our #2 hold.

Hours of red and white bobbers.

One hits the flatbed. Hard.

The casing doesn’t crack.

No particles escape—too light

to penetrate our raincoats anyway.

So light they’d ride the evening breeze for miles.