Trouble

 

 

I can hear trouble brewing

I can hear it in the leaves

I can hear it in the murmur

Of the apocalyptic bees

 

I can hear trouble brewing

I can hear it in the traffic

I can hear trouble brewing

I try not to panic

 

I can hear it in the boondocks

I can hear it in the city

Whatever it is it’s coming

It’s not going to be pretty

 

Now I hear it knocking

Insistently at the door

I pull down the shades

I’m not home anymore

 

But the postman’s shrill whistle

Warns me it is done

Whatever it is has found me

In the mailbox under the sun