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Rob Mackenzie

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Bath Time at the Apocalypse

          Grey scum skirts
the rim like the remains
          of a burnt-out halo.
An old man summons
          the world’s demise,
prays for hail to stone
          the steamy windows
and break the tension.
          He’s quit roll-ups
for the day, clutches
          the empty ashtray
to his ear, like a child
          with a beached shell,
eager for sounds
          of trapped life;

A dog-bark answering its own
echo from the centre of the shopping
mall car park, a letterbox
chopping gas bills like a guillotine,
a last kiss blown under the counter
at the supermarket checkout.

          He scans the ceiling
for cracks, openings,
          but it’s all whitewash.
Could be nothing beyond.
          The fear that angels
and demons congregate
          in corners, kick up dust,
yet remain invisible
          to the naked eye, waiting
for the last sud to pop.
          He’s hedged his bets;
the Lord’s Prayer
          by heart, the Devil’s
music in his soul,
          post-modern fever
on the brain. Soon
          he’ll plug a cigarette
between his lips,
          tap a demon for a light,
a last request,
          to leave like an angel,
in a puff of smoke.

 

Page(s) 60-61

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