The End of the World

The persistent cough, the routine procedure,

the congenital defect, the faulty wiring,

the fire in the starboard engine, the force majeure,

the mistress in the city, the last spirited thrust,

the little breeze off the coast of Africa,

the apples torn from the trees,

the unopened mail, the paperboy ringing the bell,

the atmospheric anomaly, the snow on the TV,

the hot wind with its tincture of rotting fish,

the wasps-nest of tumors, the drug-resistant strain,

the feeding tube, the shunt, the morphine drip,

the fatigue and general malaise,

the night inventory of the medicine cabinet,

the sleeping pills, the razor blades,

the reversals suffered as a child,

the bend in the road, the patch of black ice,

the telephone pole advancing in the high beams,

the statistical improbability, the cougar attack,

the stray piece of cosmic debris, the locals celebrating

the wedding of the loveliest girl in the village

by firing their guns into the air.

(This poem appeared in The Good News about Armageddon, Brick Books 2010).

———————————–

Cats and Dogs

Rain, rain, rain on the roof

like a noise machine—you’ve been listening

but you can’t hear the loop.

You aren’t alone. The past holds itself aloof

like a cat, absolutely certain

it’s the most captivating and misunderstood

creature in the room. Present

company included. The future is the twin

that couldn’t be more different.

Anxious as a dog leashed to a lamppost,

it knows its master, who’s just run in

for cigarettes, might not be coming back,

that things are always in the process

of never being the same again. This,

like a bowl on the verge of empty, warrants

hypervigilance. The past drapes itself

around your neck, a suffocating,

purring pelt. Of course it’s self-satisfied.

It’s made it this far. The future twitches and jerks

in its sleep, chasing some small frantic

thing that leaves the perfume of its panic

on the air. No one tells you how

hard it will be to ignore them, pawing

at the door to be let out, in, out, in, out again.

(This poem was published in Reckon, Brick Books 2018).