Waiting
There is fake blood on congressional walls,
the outraged rage on
though they are all unclear
about whatever.
Beyond our shores
apocalyptic war gallops on four horses.
A river of blood flows to the sea.
Are there marmalade sandwiches for tea
or only a thinly buttered bread
and wilted cucumber?
Back from the conflict
reporters warn of storms
on the home front,
but we who kneed our knees,
to facilitate, hating to disturb
the already perturbed,
await with bated breath
for the big bang and the death
of reason forever.
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