Electric Ivy

Benjamin Jenkins, life, New England, New Hampshire, poem, poems, poetry, Portsmouth, writing

“Do you think it’s the apocalypse?”

“You mean right this minute, or in general?”

I have never been asked this question

With such earnest,

From a sane, pragmatic individual.

Sane, in the sense he has made money.

Sane, in the sense he has children.

Sane, in the sense I trust him not to become incarcerated.

Is this pragmatic thinking?

 

I suppose in a way he is right:

The wonderful caffeine daydream infused tapping

Has left me.

I suppose in a way he is right:

The leaders don’t hear

The smoker’s cough surrounding the Earth.

They see color and religion

As I see the stripes on Adidas.

 

I’m standing at the center of a full restaurant

A foot from the bottles and glass washer.

Mixing poison and fruit juices

For individuals I barely know.

Our history built on previous interactions.

Laughing faces lit by the glow through liquor,

Feasting on duck confit and pickled mustard seed.

 

Christmas lights like electric ivy

Hang from the tin ceiling.

The chatter blends into a rolling boil.

Do I think it’s the apocalypse?

I’m serving, smelling, and selling manna

I think this is the foreword.

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