THE END OF THE WORLD

Somebody asked the world
if it liked clams and linguine.
The world said you ought to reverse it.
Reverse what somebody said.
Make it linguine and clams--
putting clams first is problematic.
Why asked somebody.
Because said the world clams belong to the sauce
but the sauce isn't as important as the type of pasta.
So you prefer linguine to clams.
You could say that.
Could I say that you prefer clams to fusili or rotini.
Yes you could say that.
So you like clams with fusili or rotini.
I do.
And linguine with clams.
Yes.
Do you even like clams?
But the world didn't hear somebody
ask the final question.
The final question the world ever heard
was the one before that.
The world then had a heart attack
and was rushed to the hospital
but perished in the ambulance.
In the interest of full disclosure
I admit that I am that somebody.
For years I have harbored the secret
guilt that I killed the world.
I think about it every time
I eat at the Olive Garden.
The waitresses all know to bring me
endless bowls of the same two dishes.

THE WORLD AND US

The world asked somebody a question the sound of underwear,
like freshly folded underwear.
It was spring and the flowers were out for a walk.
I stood on the flagstone path drinking a tonic.
The world sent an airplane across the sky at the precise moment
somebody started to answer the world.
Everyone watched the plane scribble its white crayon
across the blue paper way up there.
I asked a woman if her name was really Luann.
The world repeated its question, this time the sound of overalls,
overalls caked in mud from fourwheeling at the bog
with the Jeep doors off and the hard top off and the radio loud.
No one really got what the world wanted,
but we admitted it had a good way of speaking.