A thousand battered kegs
floated in the bay.
It was a holiday
and the rats were jumping ship.
Talk of treason had turned
to suggestions of war.
Every machine sounded of planes.
Thunder was guns
and then night drew in.
On next morning’s map,
we had been eliminated.
Harbor islands had become volcanoes.
The waves bore shrapnel
and shredded uniforms.
The holiday was blamed
and next time we were told
to kill all celebration.
