Poem: Liberal Parousia of A Colder War

During the first Cold War
he looked for exits, and in '80
stuffed nuts and heirloom
seeds and a 4-wheel drive
into his cheeks

and died quietly
into the wilderness. For 20
years he was safe, tended his garden,
waited for nuclear Parousia.
At least I won't die

like a stockbroker
he told the cold starry sky.
And he waited. And the end
didn't come. And in the end
he came off the mountain
and died with the rest of us.