the little apocalypse

The morning traffic sings,

accompanied by bird noise,

and I am on your threshold,

a dirty brown duffel bag over my shoulder,

and I walk in the door —

Behold these treasures I bring you,

collected on my lifelong sojourn,

picked up from the roadside along the way,

pieces of knowledge, smudged memories, blunted points of view,

and broken ideologies, all 

the contents of a lost mind,

and empty the bag in your comfort zone —

hey, where did you go —

down what drain do you flow?

Why do you seek the dead among the living?

It’s Easter Sunday. 

In an empty tomb I encounter your living absence,

and, seized with terror and ecstasy,

I ascend.