Today's prompt: " I want you to write a work-related poem. Work doesn't have to be the main feature of the poem, but I want you to "work" it in somehow. And remember: There are different types of work. Of course, there are the activities that gain you fortune and fame (or not), but then, there's also housework, exercise, volunteering, etc. I'm sure you'll "work" it out."
Projectiles, concrete, cold wars . . . .
Um, yeah - you know, it's probably best not to ask about this one . . . .
My Very Own Underground Vertical Cylindrical Storage Container
Sometimes it's a chore
just to get out of bed
in the morning, to find
the motivation to pull
oneself upright, to awaken
the personal inertial navigation
system and launch to surface
consciousness in dread anticipation
of possible decommissioning, reluctant
to punch the ignition sequence, knowing
full well it could fail, and leave me fumbling
through the day in slow-motion, brain
a half a beat behind the body. Living
on the launch pad of a missile silo
means perpetually glancing up
at the blast doors, a lengthy distance
over head, wondering about the weather
outside the entombing concrete walls.
I am a patient daughter of Titan.
I wait for relief, a support squadron
to knock on the subterranean
access portal and allow me
to deploy to a sunnier location.