mommyrocker12
*
Not a fan

My husband loved the apocalypse, I did not.
Whoopity do, Armageddon.
As we walked through our neighborhood,
I said to our family, “This is the Apocalypse?

It’s just a big sick ward.”
Talk about false advertising. No smoke,
no fireworks, no trumpets, just a bunch of people
coughing behind closed doors.

We were hoping to see the Lake of Fire.
Instead? Our same old trashy beach and rotten lake.
I didn’t see a single falling star, same old
boring moon, not split in two like a Nilla wafer.

And where were the white horses, angels,
Gog and Magog, whoever they are,
and where was that beast thing? Probably dead
at the bottom of our rotten lake.

People are so stupid they even ruined
the Apocalypse. “Babe, we’re witnessing
history!” my husband said.
I guess I was seeking some sort of deep

existential revelation. But I got nothing.
Masks. Masks on faces. Masks on the ground.
They’ll probably even make a sequel.
Also there was no taco truck.

Richard Newman is the author of four books of poetry, most recently Blues at the End of the World (Kelsay Books, 2024), and the novel Graveyard of the Gods. His work has appeared in American Journal of Poetry, Best American Poetry, Boulevard, I-70 Review (featured poet), Innisfree Poetry Journal, Literary Matters, New Letters, Poetry East, Tar River Poetry, and many other magazines and anthologies. He currently teaches Creative Writing and World Literature at Al Akhawayn University in Morocco. Before moving to the Maghreb, he and his family lived in Vietnam, Japan, and the Marshall Islands.