by Bruce McRae
Tomorrow Has Been Cancelled
Less and less of our world remains,
a forest erased, a river brushed out.
Slowly, my street is disappearing,
like a word rubbed off a page.
Form changes. Images converge.
It’s all very bewildering, the ground
giving way to modern miracles,
history sent packing, facts thinning.
The mailman is only half way
up the path and everything ends.
This Moment In Time
Just when the crescent moon appeared.
When the ailanthus shivered.
When a heron shook its feathery crown
and the little wheel turned inside the big wheel.
While the palmist sighed, old and alone.
At this juncture. At this moment in time,
Winter putting on its walking boots,
Autumn reflecting on the iniquities of Man.
When the owl shrugged and field mice tittered
and all the beggars stood in unison, alive
to the instant, waves of fire crying the sun has risen.
The sun, churning the blues and gold of morning.
Where high angels are said to reside.
Just when the last star falls from its height.
The gambler and the drunk leaning back in their chairs
and there is no light to guide them.
The Devil Has The Best Tunes
The mystic shrugs.
The gypsy spurns
The fortuneteller sees
all, knows all, tells all,
all futures foreseeable,
your destiny laid out
like a dinner table,
everything just so.
As for the witches,
they don’t say
much of anything,
stirring their dark brew,
going arm in arm
with the devil’s dances.
Consumed with laughter.
A rat behind a wall
declared its independence.
This was long ago
and difficult to verify.
In a house owned by a spinster.
In a city in a time
of social upheaval
and political disruption.
This was before
the war before the war
before the war,
the spinster now a box of bones.
Her house torn down.
The rat prolific.