What Will Become of Us?
The center of town looks like a scene
from an alien-invasion movie: blood
pours from people’s ears, a foot
sits on a curb, glasses in the gutter,
a briefcase burning, an empty skirt.
My darlings, the apocalypse waits
at expressway entrances, or lurks
two blocks away. Take a right
and follow the crooked boulevard.
If the juggernaut passes you by
invite it back: tank treads, bomb
triggers, gunsights, a black-winged
angel smoking a cigar and giving
directions, missing two fingers
from each hand. Follow the narrow
road where leaves curl in flames.
Now for the bad news—in Tuesday’s