Because this is, again, the end of it all, I revised this poem. Who wants this one? Let me know, and I’ll make it a postcard and send it along.

If You Knew the Hour

You would not gather the children close & bunker them

            against the day but loose them into the sun’s damning,

                        unglazed with sunscreen.

Seeing them so free to dig in the yard for treasure, their skin

            pinking, you would think of the endings you like in stories.

You could also think of salmon & dill, of lemon, & fire

            up the grill, & as the earth continued to move & die

You would crack open all the beers left in the garage fridge.

Feeding your neighbors grilled fish & week old bread,

            you might bless the meal with “How Great thou Art,”

            so sharp at the top of your range you notch a node

                        in your vocal folds, glottal stops all out.

When Christ shall come, with shout of acclamation and the kids stop

            digging to look at you, embarrassed a little, as you imitate

                        the trumpet call by blowing across the lip of a lager bottle

Then lift the golden bottle to the descending Lord, like his host,

            introducing yourself & the neighbors; turns out, the children he already knows.

Tell him, you would, to pull up a plastic chair.

Hand him a paper plate of fish, &ask him if, given the state of the world,

  this time, he’d like a second beer.

After dinner, you would invite him into the garage to use your power tools, 

            to build a sturdier chair. Stay, you’d say, till the end of another hymn.

David Wright 

Originally drafted 21 May 2011 / Revised 21 Oct. 2011