where the writers are
The Third Pig

 

Anyone can smell it coming,

 

rank meaty breath and ticking claws.

 

Hindsight’s so enhanced prescience

 

you apprehend the end before

 

due credit’s claimed or blame assigned

 

to splinter groups as yet unnamed.

 

Warned, you make escape provisions,

 

hoard water and electric tape,

 

surf uninterrupted broadcasts,

 

test batteries and buy a gun.

 

Car alarm crescendos summon

 

first responders, rotors hammer

 

telegraphic reassurance—

 

got it got it got it got it

 

but something’s up, the anchorman

 

makes semaphores of frowns and grins

 

that contradict his scripted news,

 

agenda none but you discerns.

 

Each day’s a cautionary tale

 

you listen to, a child again,

 

mesmerized by Dad exclaiming

 

Wolf! to villagers once-bitten

 

into doubt, Chicken Little’s squawks

 

against the imminent collapse,

 

the mine canary whistling one

 

inquiring note into the dark,

 

then pausing to inhale, and wait.