Pale Shelter

This poem is in response to a challenge to write a fictional poem about living in a fallout shelter.  Intriguing idea, so here is my poem.
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Pale Shelter

The clocks have all stopped
The batteries are dead
So the slow drip of the distiller
Keeps the time inside my head.

The feet that made the hallways
Echo from before
Are withering with lye
Behind the cold storage door.

I've got UV lamps for vitamins
And root vegetables galore
But the best of all my mem'ries
Must stay locked by the storage door.

So I sip the drips of water
And rub my muscles sore
After pedaling for some 'lectricity
I stare mutely at the door.

All a person ever needed
As well as me, myself and I.
Averting eyes from the storage room
And thoughts of who'll douse me with lye.

If Life Equals 'X' Then

At first presentation of the problem
The answer came as consensus:
The variable isn't variable at all.
The Straight white line
The cozy monotone box is right.

Now as the bedrock crumbles
And her feet must vary their standing,
We find her path awash with color
And aberrations of determination.
So then X must equal what is needed.

--
Hi all.
I have been lonely without poetry. But I'm determined to give it another go.

Desert Child, Desert Mother

Her face was lined and tired.
Not like O'Keefe, fellow-desert dweller,
Cheeks the dry earth after rain.
No, my grandmothers face is the scalloped soft sand after the caress of gentle winds.
She yanks tumble-weeds from her flowerbeds and burrs from her bicycle tires.