The Apocalypse Sleeps In (a poem by Jeffrey Erikson)


The Apocalypse Sleeps In

“You needn’t act as if the world had come to an end,” he said, “because it hasn’t. . . .  Buck up,” he said, “it won’t kill you.”

— “Everything That Rises Must Converge”, Flannery O’Connor

Before I wake again, they wake me: kids
with loud philosophies of fairness in the hall.
It doesn’t matter what they want or who’s
done what.  I lumber out of bed, bad knee,
bad foot, bad back and breath.  I trip.

A rainy morning, second in a row.
‘All day’, I think: I’ll nip it in the bud.

And then a laugh.  They’ve worked it out before
I creak and crack and groan into the hall.
It hasn’t come to blows this time, perhaps
it won’t today.  Perhaps they’ll share dolls’ clothes,
the pens and paper of their poems.  Or perhaps

today will be the day all hell breaks loose,
and time and rain conspire to end all things.

The bed’s still warm, the covers, too.  I crawl
back under, close my eyes, and turn away.


Featured image by Tom Darin Liskey

48404981_232905954270107_4662841720327634944_nJeffrey Erikson lives in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, with his wife and children. He earns a paycheck as a software developer, but spends the rest of his time reading, playing board games few people have heard of, and making photographs of the world around him. His photographs can be found at