Apocalyptic poems, posted every m-f.

half each

two men, if you can call old boys that any longer,
pool together their best yams and beets
and go halfsies on a rusty volkswagon – the kind that still runs despite itself

they spend two days attacking the damn thing with a crowbar,
much to the bafflement of those younger than they, and the chagrin of those older
when they manage to tear it in two: triumph.

the first man, the one with the beard and the bad glint,
he grinds the worst of their yams and beets up into a sort of soup,
feeds it to the skeleton automobile, and drives off into the cold

the other takes what’s left of the food, the percentage actually left for food,
and crawls under the hollow steel shell, aftermath of the crowbar afternoon
safe with his yams
safe with his beets

this is an analogy, of course

i am always of two minds about this, as they were of two men
craving adventure, wanting sleep, half each.

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