Apr/May 2007 Poetry Special Feature

The End of the World

by Bob Bradshaw

The End of the World

Last month our pastor announced
that The End was near.

I went home and wrote my indolent ex-wife a check
for overdue child support.

Then I drank as if whiskey
was the only antidote for my past.

Neighbors returned mowers.
Chisels. Rakes. Anything rusty.

Everyone prayed
as clouds of lightning,
overloaded transformers, exploded,
and the anointed waters fell.

For weeks we waited. Neighbors
eyed me, as if uncertain
to ask for their returned goods back.

The pastor quietly dropped
his warnings of the world's end.
But the rain fell and the streets

flooded. My neighbors waited, as I did,

for the waters to recede.


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