by C. S. Kraszewski.
Was it 4.54 billion
Or only five thousand, seven hundred seventy five years ago
This world was created
In trumpet-peals of light?
Let’s assume the earlier date.
It puts that scratch on your new car
In better perspective.
Still hungry for news?
When I return home to her after my morning run
The mastiff spins around wildly
On her own axis,
Disappearing in a tawny blur
Of pure happiness
To knock out the power grid.
As the lights flicker and die
The irrelevant, stiff-coiffed talking heads
In their svelte Ermengildo Zegna suits
And discreetly scented Kate Spade sleeveless
Stumble out front of the situation room
Helpless and shivering
Beneath the ancient light
Of the distant stars.