The Unreal

End of the world weather,
Sunday afternoon.
A truck idles in it, armed
with an air-horn akin
to the last trumpet.

Off to the right, out the window
below the thunder, the tops
of roadwork machinery

-clumps of orange & yellow
hemmed in by too-green trees,
the sky's constant damage.

Jazz fails to cut it.

Best leave the phone alone,
music to the elements

'perchance have you happened to see
a soul
out there on the collapsing street
engaged in unnecessary risk?',

you ask yourself.


Not one.


We are left to recall
the inclement joy of Gene Kelly
who danced when the world was young.