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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