I had to go there, to know
the feeling at the very bottom of
a missile silo, to sight along the muzzle
of this unlikely gun that can flatten a city
continents away and fry its humanity.

We called them wheat field silos,
so pastoral. Who would have guessed
that Kansas and Nebraska
were armed for Armageddon?

One hundred-fifty foot-deep holes
in the ground, lined with concrete,
filled with open steel structures,
work platforms every ten feet.
At the center, the missile;
silent, shining, loaded, deadly.

We take the elevator down down down.
Foreman tells me men died here,
like the fellow, married, two kids, who
stepped off the scaffolding at the top,
swore a blue streak all the way down.
Landed right here, he says,
as we reach the floor, a discoloration
etched in grave gray concrete.

A puddle of water reflects the webwork
of steel above, lit like a Christmas tree.
Compressors chattering, motors humming,
screams of high pressure gas venting.
Such a panic, getting all these silos ready
for an impending shooting war.

Looking up, I can see the rocket through
the girders, hunkered on its platform,
silent, shining, loaded, deadly.
I wonder if it will work as planned.
Will it leave marks on the planet
like the workman who landed here?