Waiting for the Rapture

You tell me,

with a certainty I envy,

what you'll change,

what you’ll do:
Stay awake,

watching the clock click random numbers,
as the ducks,

a family of old Muscovies,
Gramps and Tricky and Jeanette and

Ambrose, who has only part of one foot

because feral cats ate the rest,
curl up under the tree next to

the retention pond filled with

fish hiding under the algae
to avoid becoming cormorant breakfast,
southwest breeze rippling the moonlight reflection.
You'll stay awake while I sleep, half on top of you,
just like every other night.
"Not a blessed thing different," you say.
"Not a blessed thing."