Sonnet for the Apocalypse
The plants are taking it all
Back. Gray-black bricks are crumbling,
The roof is about to fall
In. Small monkeys are tumbling
From tall branches and tangled
Vines. My innocent living
Room — where my brother wrangled
The dog, where our frolicking
Ended sprawled out on the couch —
Now corrupted by salt ash.
Sometimes, a bobcat will crouch
By the kitchen door, where rash
Rabbits like to fornicate.
Only wind moves through the gate.