Just as one of those simple people
who believe the world will end next Tuesday
drives through my neighborhood shouting "Repent!"
through a megaphone thrust from his black van,
I throw my window open for a gulp of winter air
and he begins shouting directly at me:
the government is failing and my brain
has been damaged by the blue light of television,
the last war is coming
and unless I do some quick work on my soul,
my stay in eternity will be mighty unpleasant.

He's crazy, but what he's saying is true:
scientists agree the earth is losing momentum,
that eventually the old 9-to-5 with two weeks vacation,
poor working slob at the wheel, kids in back with Ruffy,
Sally beside him, "sweetest li'l gal in the world,"
on their way to the lake for fishing,
will fall into the sun. Do I care?
I have no kids, no Sally, no Ruffy.
The room I rent is small and unpleasantly cold.
I don't even have a job — let it all fall into the sun!

I'm taking off my shirt now, unzipping trousers,
climbing back on the bed to nurse my grudge
into fullblown depression when something stupid happens:
a bird flies into the room and then flies out again!
It scares me, the way that investigating angel
must have scared St. John when she came to judge,
grading him down for lack of grace and lack of lust,
"Dear John, you can do better. C plus, C plus."
So I'm standing here in my winter underwear
and my room feels cold but suddenly good —
if this is the way the world ends, that's okay,
it's winter, and my window is wide open.