What If

day four hundred and twenty two

we remain below the surface

in the caves and catacombs

of a life that should have been ours

above us roam the foul creatures

that hunt the living, eat the dead

stalk the grand mansions of what once

stood as the pinnacle of wealth

weeds spring among the rows of grapes

choking their growth, hiding the sun

so the fruit is stunted and sparse

we gather the little that’s there

what if today were different—

no fever dreams of green pastures

but true pinch-me reality

where life exists above the ground

what if a lovely garden grows

not that far from where we forage

safe from monsters and absent of

the radioactive fallout

and there the Gardener keeps watch

while searching among the rubble

to find even one hiding soul

who believes in the light of day