The end of the world is coming,
and we have front row seats.
 
John reads the schedule of things to come:
First, mojitos,
Then, an hour's repast,
Followed by a hole in the sun.
 
We dress in our finest morning clothes,
but none of us in black.
The chairs are stiff, the air is cold.
The mountains in the distance undulate like waves,
as the final sun crests the day.

Judith comments about wheat allergies.
Russell bristles his ginger mustache.
Peggy pretends none of this is happening,
as she sips from her sherry glass.
 
Our shadows stretch from the veranda's frame,
seeking solace in an oblique distance.
 
Peter wonders what will happen to them all.
 
 
end