Waiting For The Apocalypse

There must be flood warnings somewhere since it’s rolling thunder, a deluge of rain and the so-called patio is crowded with one cat taking refuge under the overhang, the puppy’s caged under a blanket with air flowing low from the wind-driven water, and I’m sitting back enjoying fresh coffee and god-forbid-tobacco.

I’m looking upward across the sky from one reach of my head to another like some broken tick-tock metronome, or Stevie Wonder shaking his head in disbelief that this is no longer Motown: each of us equally resembling a crouched Praying Mantis communicating with distant stars, though more likely nurturing a disagreeable thrum of methane, non-bespoke.

Wishing for the apocalypse or something equally fractious against the boom and gloom since the storm could not possibly be its own raison d’être.

Underneath me moles are in alarum, deer are tramping down their insecurities, while foxes and the occasional possum stretch across the fields a few hundred yards away in a refreshing optimism that perhaps the chattering classes – God, myth, that bitch, that dick, fuckme, etc. – are about to meet the great Shut The Fuck Up.

No such luck however as rain subsides, the tap’s turned off; the cat TroubleMaker slides across the lawn chair seat to groom and stare, the coffee’s running out in opposition to the rain, clouds of cigarette smoke lift us both away, and I, the great Tick Tock, shuffle my head backwards and sideways, a foregone retard with no thoughts or solemnity called prayers for what may come or not these days.

©Dean Baker

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© deanbakerpoetryandsongs.com

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Shadow Boxing The Infinite

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