The Communist professor of cardiology,
jolly and welcoming as he is,
becomes philosopher as he thinks back,
believing to this day there’s much virtue
in being short
After the ringing in his ears subsided,
in the silence and numbness
that follows flash and explosion,
sprawled on the floor
he smelled cement
and the breath of the bomb
He felt his hair, his forehead,
nose and jaw all there
Where then had it come from,
the hair, blood and brain matter,
splattered, sticking to his white coat?
At that moment, no one had yet cried out,
moaned or sobbed
His legs felt too heavy to move,
the vault to memory locked shut
For an indeterminate amount of time
he pulled at its latch, pulled at it, pulled at it,
puzzled its combination until, suddenly,
it sprung open of its own accord
Ah yes, that was it, the conversation they were having,
the short Dr. Kai and the tall Dr. Nguyen,
his head perfectly framed in the open window