Evening in St. Paul

The crimson sky shakes
with speculation and clouds dive for cover. Cars
in a row
glow
red and white in street-
light. Neon night falls to the frozen street
like clouds that
eat
bitter stars.

Road raging drivers climb through cracks in time,
gripping quicklime
wheels, seeking absolution
in overheated air.

The apocalypse is not my problem.

Prophets with eyes like taillights line up in
television rows.
They are cars
with lights as red
as the lips of somebody's god.

—Norman J. Olson