The Second Coming

We're having at round two
when her cat gets in the way--
a literal roadblock
for its figurative cousin
attached to a sprawled recipient
as regal as a queen.
Her writhing thigh
bends my neck left
then right
in a combo Buster Douglas
must have once felt
in his prime.

Eschewing a "lack of services" case
I bob and weave and don't miss a beat
since such a crime
against such a face
would have me feeling my age again.
These failures must be dodged
when life's become
a series of medical appointments.
According to the cooking shows
I can't make scrambled eggs right
but I've still got this
if nothing else
and won't give up so easily.

Suddenly she's rising
though not from her own motion.
I look up from my task
not believing what I'm seeing.
Her face has gone blank
as she hovers over bedsheets.
I grab her ankles desperately
hellbent on completion.
The Rapture picked the worst time
to happen to this heathen.
A shock flows through my hands
and I'm forced to give release
though not the one I'd wanted
before this awkward apocalypse.

She's floated out of sight.
I scramble to the window.
It all makes sense in an instant
when I see the moon that's robbed us.
A nearby fire hydrant sprays a geyser
through a bumper.
Sirens blare in the background.
Her cat has disappeared.

Alone in the darkness
of her bedroom
I clamber for clothes.
Her alarm clock flashes midnight
though the box fan hasn't stopped.
I rub my jaw and taste her
and hope that it won't fade.
I hope the bridge is open
despite abandoned cars.
I wonder if I can make it
to my place before the fire.
I wonder if my gun safe
will be worth its weight in gold.