The doorbell rang,
And I went to answer it

with the knife I'd been using
still in my hand.

A couple in their twenties,
immediately identifiable

from their clean-cut good looks
as Jehovah Witnesses,

smiled at me
through the screen door.

Hello, he said.
Yeah, hello, I said.

He waved a leaflet
in my direction.

There's going to be
a meeting, he said,

about how to survive
the end of the world.

She never said anything.
Over her shoulder,

I could see a country road,
a tree, evening.

Who wants to? I said.

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Howie Good resides in the vortex of a bad karma tornado.
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Discussion
  28 months ago
I like this poem.

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