Don'T Step On A Crack You'Ll Step On Jack Poem by Patti Masterman

After the war ended, we always remembered
to take careful, measured steps
because sometimes
you would see a wildflower
poking out the ruins of a shirt
or some tattered piece of clothing-

And it wasn't coming out a lapel,
it was deeply embedded
in the fleshy soil
that still carried on
a secret life of it's own.

And occasionally,
a white mushroom that looked edible
was really a mummified eyeball
straining to get one more
good look at the sun
before nightfall came back again,
tying everything together
into one giant wracked body
in the ruins.

(And we even learned not to run away
just because the wind might scream
exactly like the gunshot victim,
the one who got left behind on the streets,
lying there holding in his guts
with his one remaining good hand)