THE END

"twenty nine...twenty eight..."
radio journalists scream in their quiet monotones,
the world is about to DIE.
mothers are grabbing little children,
waiting for a dusty boom to end their housewiving lives.

"twenty seven...twenty six..."
men are sweating,
quitting their jobs like birds swooping out of a swaying tree.
flags are burning
shimmering in patriotic waste
that our countries smothered over all of you
spreading sticky propoganda into the crevaces of your brains.

"fifteen...fourteen..."
teachers are panting
curled behind their cluttered desks
children scream at one another
not knowing each other for once.

"eleven...ten..."
we're all waiting, waiting
waiting for the big eruption
orange haze creeps up from the melting sun on the horizon.

"nine...eight..."
stores are being looted,
wrinkled fingers grip gleaming guns,
black-gloved hands toss foamy loaves of wonderbread into sacks.

"five...four..."
and for what?
there is no escape;
mars and venus are uninhabitable
the earth is gray with chalky mist.
why steal and stuff your stomachs?

"three...two...one."
fathers clutch their daughters' shiny hair
that report card wasn't so bad after all...
the end.