I was seven years old at the height of the Cold War,
one month after the Hungarian Revolution
Absolutely convinced Russian Intercontinental
Ballistic Missiles were about to rain down like hail
on the leaky tar roof of PS 156, in Far Rockaway.

My grandma’s peanut butter and jelly sandwiches
packed in my Superman lunchbox along
with a Devil Dog, and a golden delicious apple,
would be my last supper before annihilation.
Piercing air raid drills whistles sounded daily
The school’s battered old Zenith radio
had its emergency red triangle dial fixed like a target
on the Conelrad station Emergency Broadcast station
telling us exactly where to take cover after the attack.

My older cousin had bought me heat resistant dog
tags from Times Square for my birthday
to ensure I received a proper Jewish burial.

But my 4th grade teacher Mrs. Roarwitz, older than the bible,
even meaner than Khrushchev, convinced us that
crawling on our knees in prayer under our ancient desks with
fossilized bubble gum plastered under each lid could
shield us from exploding Russian ICBM’s, shower of Gamma Rays.

I imagined rows of indomitable T55 tanks
with red hammer and sickle emblazoned on their sides
lumbering down Mott Avenue, pulverizing Epstein’s Kosher deli,
making pancakes of my beloved Penny Arcade,;
but all my silent prayers were answered; the Air Raid Drills ended,
Khrushchev, in his infinite wisdom, kept his shoes on,
spared the poor, innocent Jewish children , of PS 156
so I could continue to eat hot corned beef sandwiches at Epstein’s,
play Ski Ball at the Penny Arcade every Saturday with my cousins.