in near distance, closing in,
a leaden Rumble.
a blowhard’s camouflage
keeps us guessing, makes us
want to throw hands,
or Cover our ears.
no matter. we still feel it
roughing up our guts and brains.
everything’s become
questionable and suspicious.
no mail again today.
is it connected to this?
was it swallowed up? store
out of trashbags again.
are they trying to bury us?
how potholed the roads,
how empty the dialogue,
how happy the dagger tongues
stabbing at their perceived
enemies. all the time we bleed
and draw blood is time away
from attending to the sound
and preparing for what will come,
for scraping away the blowhard cover,
for sweeping into the teeth of the rumble
and breaking it as it deserves.
you think you’ll be all right, I know.
you won’t. no matter how many
trashbags you hoard. no matter
how much mail you receive.
you’re as done as anyone else,
no matter how hard
you press your hands
into the shells of your ears.
it will take you
even if you never hear it coming.