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Poem

"The end is near," the short-wave said.
"Before midnight, all will be dead."
I aim to leave my baggage here.
For my warted nose should I fear?

April fifteen and taxes due
Can I afford to be so lax
As to ignore my yearly tax?
Pinch me, pinch me, I hope ‘tis true.

Will my love share claret and cheese
Before God winnows wheat from chaff?
With a glass of wine can we laugh
Watching thundering grim gray seas

Cast wild waves on our forlorn shore
Until the devil gets his due?
Or will we stand in line as two
To learn sheep or goat is our score?

Eternal gates are drawing near,
Ajar, for us to wail or cheer.
2005

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