Nobody To Die With Poem by Charles Malcolm

After nightly fantasies of
shellfish and homemade soups
Rube Goldberg suicide machines
I flip the pillow
and picture myself
alone
in the shadows of tidal waves
toppling skyscrapers
mushroom clouds.

There isn't a single soul
to call
to run to
to embrace
or even think about
for me
when the sirens blow.

So wave at the lone stranger
walking toward the sea
in the midst
of your worst nightmare.

His dreams
were never that good.