Lull

We are waiting
for the other shoe to drop.
A first salvo
dust
and a silence
a vertiginous concave silence.
An armistice of the dead
too brief
too achingly
achingly long.
We are waiting.
Peace like a hundred
blimp shadows.
Peace like the famished
pirouette
of a falling bomb.
We see the distant contrails.
Our answer approaches.
We are waiting
for the other shoe to drop
and it grows
from dap
to clog
to boot
impossibly swelling
a car
a ship
heavier heavier
starting to slip.