The end of time will come one day,

and it may be during our annual Christmas Eve party.

All the guests will evacuate the house

through the basement door,

into the darkening afternoon-

our friends, family and neighbors,

crunching through the snow

in their dress shoes.

 

We’ll huddle in the brush

at the back of the property,

eating cookies with numb fingers

and sharing a bottle of Beaujolais

(which someone will have surely remembered to grab

from the buffet table on the way out the door).

 

Our knees will smell like mud

as we scrunch up, communing.

our knees will smell like mud

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