on that day
when everything is thrown
into the fire
and the sky is red
like a livid patch of psoriatic skin
and rivers are acrid
turgid
and grumbling
like a
sweaty drunk
and the air itself is
like a bowl
of poisoned
frijoles
and you are small
and alone
like a gerbil
in the rain
you will remember
these similes
and say
goddamn man
Thomas called it
