Rob MacDonald
I know that a storm is approaching
because the sky has gone apeshit;
the hotel pool is all mine
thanks to the impending apocalypse.
No brothers Marco-Poloing,
no People magazine readers—
I can practice the dead man's float
without wondering who might
call 911, who might simply
say I'm too old for these things.
Lightning cracks an axe
through a nearby palm
as I practice my handstands.
Of course, someone is up there,
staring down
from a balcony,
wrapped in a robe,
arms folded.