End Times

by Carl Little

There it is again, dark thought,
this time as you read about earthquakes
in Arkansas. At some point
the mind shows you the world

flying apart for whatever reason:
monster asteroid, too much gas
fracked. You suddenly
understand the end times

that woman from the woods
mentions in passing
at the post office, as if they were
as important as lobby hours,

the rising price of postage —
thy kingdom come and
someone’s will be done.
Which reminds you:

your worldly goods will go
to your children, that
next generation everyone
says will pay dearly

for our excesses and sins.
Maybe they can secure
the planet as it makes its way
around the sun, which

spreads a glow this morning
over spruce and snow,
cold north solid yet
ready to melt for spring,

disaster barely averted again.