So as we all know by now the world failed to end on May 21. Though Harold Camping is now claiming that the Rapture totally happened, only it happened spiritually. Ooookay then. There are now a bunch of soulless Christians running around. Good to know! I will not approach a megachurch without my zombie repellant, then.
Anyway. I was not expecting the Rev. Camping to be right or anything, but on the off chance I went to the waterfront at 6:00 and waited. I figured it’d be the best place to go, because it would be full of tourists with Iphones and cameras and if one of them were to be raptured right next to me I might net some sweet electronics.
So 6:00 came and 6:00 went, and absolutely nothing changed. Not that I minded. So I sat there and stared at the water for a bit. Then I wrote this poem.
On the day the world was meant to end
I went down to the water, watching
orderly throngs pass to and fro
no sign of terror on each solid face.
Ducks, spiders, styrofoam, sticks
Floated idly on oily water
and I waited, quiet, listening for the sound
of the final blast of the final trumpet –
but it was only the water against the rocks,
seagulls and traffic, laughter and argument:
the petty sound of human happiness,
of ordinary people on an ordinary day.