The World's End
by Bob Bradshaw



Many are emptying their pockets.
Others are embracing strangers.

Next month the world ends.
The poles will break up into trays of ice.
Rising seas will flood St. Louis.
Comets will blitz the skies.

Everywhere black cats
will be underfoot
and my mother-in-law will move
in with us

days after you whisper
in my ear that you are carrying
our first child.

"How can you be happy?" I'll ask.
"The world is doomed."

You'll smile mysteriously,
a gambler with an inside tip
on tomorrow's fixed race.






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