The Forboding Nugget

The end of the world is a foreboding nugget

at the back of everybody’s minds like

an itchy foot.

No telling when it’s going to happen,

or how.

If by leaky earth fluid spitting out into space,

or by too much pressure built up

underneath the crust.

Implosion or explosion.

eggbeater uprising or chaotic conga line gone too far.

Nothings written in stone, and if it were

It’d be gone with the rest when the moon hits the earth;

exiled under molten explosions,

torrential tide spouts,

and electrical surges.

Some scientists say that

The Earth is need of a cataclysmic impact.

That since our last one, every year gone by increases

the indefinitely high percentage of another extinction.

I hope a barbeque is my final resting place.

With my mother’s spicy chicken recipe

seared onto my skin like a tattoo

and our family pooch named Scooter by my side.

My father can be playing the banjo,

my grandmother playing cards,

and I can be humoring my uncle Steve,

laughing at some stupid jokes.

Then, that way, when the apocalyptic prophets cry:

“Here it comes! Embrace your loved ones!”

I can finally rid myself of the foreboding nugget

in a style all my own.