I write from compulsion and cannot deny
That I have entered this sickly confessional phase
I don’t feel sorry for myself
But I feel pity for the child some fifty-six years ago

And to claim that child as myself makes no sense
But I was the child who entered a sickly anxious phase
And it was I who registered the shift
That occurred on virtually a single day

A plane flew over doubtless some commercial craft
And I ran into the shelter of the house
And I was aware both that I probably had nothing to fear
And that if I did the house would prove no shelter

Ours was a medium-sized city
And I delighted in the air traffic
That did not overcrowd the sky
But certainly was a common enough sight

One couldn’t see the pilot or passenger
But I would wave and wonder who would wave back
And I felt sure they did so for I felt sure
That I was solid and present and visible

And sometimes I would speak into a cupped hand
In what I took to be the tone of radio chatter
As if to acknowledge the fantastic character
Of the relation of plane to me

But today it was an object of terror
For I had learned to duck and cover
And I did not know how to know
Which plane would drop the atom bombs