Little Fugue of Love and Death
          We talked of the end of the world and then
          We sang us a song, and then sang it again.
                    —Woody Guthrie, "This Dusty Old Dust"

The sky is gray. My joints are old.
The terrorists will nuke us.
I cannot shake this summer cold.
My head's a hive of mucous.

Our dog is old. He cannot shake.
He collapses in the iris.
Dead birds litter the alleyway,
a wave of West Nile virus.

We drink beneath the new flight path
the clouds can't hope to deaden.
We can't see T-birds, Raptors, Blackhawks,
but it sounds like Armageddon.

And you and I sit on our porch,
drenched head to toe in Deet.
We swill the High Life, holding hands
despite the record heat.

The dog has grayed. The sky has grayed.
The grass and shrubs have browned.
Our life is high. The sky is low.
Our love goes round and round.

Copyright © 2009 Richard Newman All rights reserved
from Domestic Fugues
Steel Toe Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission