Which is not to say the sunset couldn’t use
the help. Salmon sky and we have so few
calamities: the odd avalanche, cowboys thrown
by gopher holes. You can’t look up without thinking
you wrecked a Duster just that color in an LA quake.
Strata squabble here, but quietly. The Rockies send tornadoes
packing back to Nebraska. Sure, we’ve got bottled water,
racked shelves of canned tomatoes, fat candles. Not that
anything ever happens. OK, that couple who drowned
in the Big Thomson. And the hail. Those two ghouls
who rang doorbells – my neighbor thought it was my boys
and filled their bags with Butterfingers. Or apples
laced with razor blades. I can’t remember. Did I say
my mother? I meant a mailman. I’m always
doing that. And it was a tsunami.