The War

I knew this would be the last thing done on earth.
I sensed, I knew too that too soon I'd die.
 
Weeks before the war began
I started scrubbing myself--showering
two, three times a day--washing my hands
over and over.
I was clean before
                                       hop
but then I knew
into the cleanest creases
of my worried skin
something was up and soon to be over.
 
                         hop hop
Now l'm a frog
grounded beneath twisted
already rusted, pitted steel.
Each time the blasts thunder
(and the broiling heat)
I dive into whatever mud's left,
flick my tongue at whatever flies,
some mite fallen off its wing
and swallow.
No joy in the poisoned meal.
 
My spots have been gone for hours.
l'm sticky skin drying
and all of a sudden blind.