This’ll be the end.
I can see it coming.
Like those camphor-scented spinsters in the cinema
who make you mad
fumbling for gloves
elbowing themselves into coats,
buttoning up –
Such a final snapping shut of handbags
the moment it’s all over but the change of mood and music.
So you demand response, do you?
Right to the bitter end, you like to see the credits roll?
I’m off.
Rebecca Clifford's poetry and prose appear in Canadian and international anthologies and e-zines. She lives in rural Ontario, gardens with intention and a backhoe, planting as many sunflowers as the ground will hold. She is supported in her endeavours by her long-suffering husband and a disdainful cat of questionable parentage.