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How Feynman would respond to our worries about the bomb
Trading coded messages with his first wife and fighting the Los Alamos censor off
While she was ill with tuberculosis, in the hospital terminus

Cracking any combo lock, opening the file cabinets with the top secrets,
Baiting bloodhounds, walking the fence, avoiding military service,
Working in atomic science, Sorcerer’s Apprentice of a sort, serviceable because honest


“ Surely You’re Joking Mr. Feynman!

Borrowed Klaus Fuchs’s car to drive to Albuquerque to visit his wife,
Picked up two hitchhikers, had flat tire after flat tire and finally no spare,
Then had to abandon the car and hitchhike thirty miles to see her

“Surely You’re Joking Mr. Feynman!

Only, to get there a few hours before her death and, then, her death certificate—
The magic of number, her clock kaput at 9:22, seven years after he gave it to her
Out in the desert, the wind, the wind—no Santa Fe, his sense of being useless

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