Tomson Jane Oliver

You are Nuka Cola and whiskey

the hand and the glove

You are the rolling fog

blanketing the night

and the tick tick tick

of the Geiger Counter

vault dwellers often wear.

You are the cry of the trader

selling goods

and the ferals stirred into action

by blood in the air --

But you are not

the soothing rain on the crops.

​

Or fresh water on the lips of parched travelers.

​

Or the burning rain that pours down

right when we fail to find shelter

 

And you are definitely not

the bubblegum on the counter

of a long forgotten kitchen

nestled in Sanctuary Hills.

 

Perhaps you are the ghoul in the metro station.

Or the seagull winging softly over Salem.

 

However, there's no way you could be a glowing hub-flower

like a beacon at night

bidding lost traders safely

to the next town on the left --

or the right -- 

of that nasty crater haunted by Deathclaws

 

so pure in their appetite for flesh.