Tuesday

Maybe the world will end on a Tuesday. In May, perhaps, or June if it’s not in a hurry. Perhaps it will end at the beginning of things. Unripe fruit burnt away on the vine. Two almost lovers, hand reaching for hand. Coffee, half poured. Perhaps the world will end at 1:03 in the afternoon. No last bloody sunset, no falling stars, just the shimmer of a hot sidewalk and the hum of the neighbor’s lawnmower. Perhaps the world will end and only the children will know. A baby’s wail, a cooing mother. A preschool class gone quiet and a distant look in a daughter’s eyes. Perhaps the world will end tomorrow and I will have the fortune of being in your arms. Will you hold me just in case?