War Baby Poem by william padgett

There’s a sharp spike in population growth
on and around the middle of April 1946.
Two bombs on Japan precipitated a new age,
the punctuation to a long and nasty war.

August fifteenth, VJ day, the Potsdam accords,
on the USS Missouri fantail, all the Allies rejoiced.
In noisy Times Square, photographer
Eisenstaedt froze a sailor's kiss forever.

I can only imagine my father on his hands and knees
frantically groping through the mothball dark closet,
Searching for the dusty sealed bottle of rye whiskey
saved especially for this kind of occasion.

Making a baby during the hardships of wartime
was never on my parents things to do list.
Now feeling the reckless abandon of the moment
they hit the sack with an unrationed lust.

That evening the world took a deep sigh of relief,
got roaring drunk and jumped into bed.
From that collective act of conception, nine months later,
appeared thousands of crying War Babies.

Later we overflowed classrooms, enticed advertisers,
smoked dope, fought a war nobody wanted.
We jammed the highways, had lofty ideals
bought large SUVs and questioned authority.

We preached Peace and Love, opened a Keogh or IRA,
built huge houses and will drain Social Security.
So you should eat healthy, take your all your vitamins
and buy stock in a funeral parlor chain.

St. Peter, you had better order up extra wings and halos,
build more cloud condominiums and sky golf courses,
and don’t forget to tune and plug in the harp amps,

because ready or not, here we come!