The day the world ends
I get up early, go downstairs,
swear at cats, stroke cats.
I put on a jacket, walk down to the gate,
pick up the papers. I read about
the disasters politicians have inflicted
on us, tut over celebrity misbehavior,
check email, eat breakfast, drink many cups
of coffee. I make a list for the supermarket,
walk out to the car, put the key in the ignition,
look up at the sky, note that it’s turned
a weird dark sepia shade. And then I
The sun pours down like honey,
flows off golden walls while
people eddy. From a window,
guitar chords ripple, cascade.
In the square, an olive tree
stands solid, flamenco dancer
of a certain age. Her bark swirls.
Her traje de volantes spirals in the wind.
No fragile sapling, but solid, weathered,
infinitely lovely. Wind shimmers
in silver leaf hair. Olives rain down,
castanets clattering on stones.