“Wild beasts dared to wander from forests by night and nested in the middle of Rome.”
We’ve seen this narrative before—
Wild beasts in an abandoned world.
It excites us, the romantic
Aspect of our ruination.
It’s a weird and picturesque scene.
It’s not good, but it’s not the worst.
The worst will come later, after
We have celebrated the worst
Being over and behind us.
The worst is like that, tractable
To action, sometimes, but immune
To the narrative undertow
That sucks us in so easily.
Celebrate the indifferent
Evening more often, I suggest,
The day you made it home safely,
Despite the plague afoot, despite
The ominous car engine light
Forthcoming as a shooting star,
Despite your strangely racing pulse,
Despite whatever scares were yours
And yours alone that afternoon.
Another day of nothing much
Is neither grim nor turning point.
For tonight, be idle, be glad.
There’s a great horned owl on the roof
And a cougar prowling the roads.
Later it will get worse. After.
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