A Wasted Land

In the thin frost of a spring morn a group slouched over Fukushima Bridge. Sore a number, who now faced death, death which had undone so many enemies and friends. Sighs long and frequent, were inhaled, and each one fixed his eye upon the counter. Down the hill and up New Trapco Street, to where the locks no longer kept us out and women combed the beach for crabs and weeds. There saw I one I vaguely knew, and she stopped me, smiling, calling: "Cowboy! You who were with the gray-suits at the plant! The top-soil you removed when you killed your garden, where is it now? How will your beansprouts grow this year?" "Will the silver frost of winter take your friend? See how he's glowing more like you and me?" said I. "Let us go partake the tainted local tea, we three," she quickly said. And so thereto we stirred . . .