Everything Simple Becomes Complex
The phones are dead, our children, unreachable,
unless that’s one of them crying in the street.
Everything simple has become complex.
I should’ve known we’d be abandoned
to vandals and the weather,
and, before heartbreak had vaporized,
admitted to the priesthood of grief,
but my thoughts were taken up with other things,
the advantages of probity versus confession.
Now the three-legged black dog next door,
moved by the poor moon’s blistered face,
growls all night in grisly sympathy.
by Howie Good
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Categories: Journaling the Apocalypse
Everything about this is good from the title to “grisly sympathy.”
An excellent post. It is evenly good all the way through.