One morning we woke and our favorite false idol,
that giant bulb shaped electrostatic nuclear generator
was toppled and laying helpless on the ground.
The developer who owned the land claimed hazard,
that the neighborhood kids were climbing it, tagging it,
the junkies were leaving their dirty needles scattered,
all the rats were migrating to the bar across the street,
but it looked like God reached down and flicked it over.
Maybe that’s how it happened and maybe God exists,
angry at our worship of the atom smasher on the hill,
for the reverence we showed our manmade smokestacks
obscuring the noon sun with fire and soot,
for the bald pride we felt for our industrial might,
and the swing-shift juicers using his name in vain
as they cracked eggs into their morning beers.
By Richard L. Gegick
Richard L. Gegick is from Trafford, PA. His poems and stories have appeared in Hot Metal Bridge, Burrow Press Review, Gulf Stream, Uppagus, and Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. He lives in Pittsburgh where he writes and waits tables for a living.