Poem: Apocalypse

I lay on the ragged couch facing the window facing the road beyond it the contemporary waste known as city and think of grandfather rocking his chair toward the east staring at the blue-gray horizon What direction is this that can keep you here eyes fixed on that narrow line at the edge of all things Horns beep people wave Grandma bends over the tomato soup in the kitchen and yells Grandpa’s dead but I have seen his eyes wander smoldering steel gray, edging out light like storm clouds over the ocean Once he touched my arm and whispered “You will be rained upon by stars” so I too faced east waiting for his strange thing to appear to rid us of colds and commies and venereal disease Still today I wait for it thinking I will be the first to see it To offer my humblest salutations while my husband fights circumstances out of his control questions my feminine integrity Outside a shrill voice yells God is not due until 2085 inside a deeper voice booms Brace for the flood.