Fulfillment

Hanging Crepe bowed his head as if his dog died,
stuck out his lower lip until it turned purple
and sighed like a wounded ghost.
“The world did not end,” Crepe muttered;
his shoulders sagged as if a bag of
potatoes were hooked to each blade.
This end-of-the-world believer knew
that all would end September 23rd…
he was as sure as Brie cheese,
as confident as loggerheads
on pond rocks basking in July’s sun.
Crepe tore the pocket of his red
flannel shirt, slipped his one flip-flop
smartly then fell to his knees on green
shag moaning no’s, staccato-like.
“Where is the destroyer?”  Crepe wailed,
his face like an old onion, sickly brown.
Crepe toppled like a loose stump,
his right arm breaking his fall, yet
lush carpet consumed his countenance.

Oh Crepe, dear Crepe, what have you gone
and done?  So the ballad goes, this folk-song
of he who so believed in the end of the world.
They found Crepe dead, stiff as wicker next
to the love seat, his lower legs bent ninety
degrees.  No trumpets blared, no choirs
sang when Crepe left this mortal coil—
he needed to die to be right.  Because
it was too much of a shock for Crepe
to endure: this furthering of what is,
this life magnificent, this earthly
continuance.  Life is electric, it
is luminescence—such is being,
such is existence…a far cry
from one called Crepe. 

It had to be, I guess, for this ultimate doomsayer.
The world went on in its own incomparable
way, though Crepe found fulfillment…

…Oh Hanging Crepe, you have your win,
you found what you were believing in. 

40 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
9-23-17