It waited for but fifteen days
after Little Boy had gone,
nine since Fat Man went its way,
to make its keeper drop a brick
of tungsten carbide, late at night,
when all the others had gone home --
there, the Core thought. Serves you right.
It bided time to kill again.
The Core made its next strike in May:
eight men working in the lab,
one small screwdriver, nudged away.
The one who died, though, saved the rest.
The Core was detonated out at sea.
Not in war, but in a test,
its last thought, they should have chosen me.