Three decent bombs, one excellent

I'm getting used to days of rescheduled
telly, half-hoping a friend will answer
his phone from under
the rubble.

My friend who is brown
explaining that he is underground
with no legs to speak of,
his one good arm held to his ear.

Through cross-hatched
eyes, he saw a woman being let off
a life of double-takes by losing such
and such amount of blood,

her skin unevenly iced.
But the networks were down
and, when I finally got through,
it turns out my friend was in Kent.

His girlfriend, Rhiannon,
was quite close by, he said. She went
to have a look but a policeman
told her to move on

so I asked him again,
bracing to be stunned,
about how much some people
will pay to have their computers fixed
at three in the morning.