I am taking part in a great experiment—whether writers can live
peacefully in the suburbs and not be bored to death. 
—Louis Simpson

From my deck, I work today’s impossibly blue sky
as a sports analyst might work his monitor by finger-
circling any spot through which—bam—Christ might

return as promised or the double moves Michael et al
might make to thwart demonic advances. Yes, in fact,
this is how I Saturday while Neighbor A and his circular saw

whine-screech a shed into existence and Neighbor B push-
mows around an offspring who’s springing, up and down,
up and down, up and down, on a rapture-ready trampoline.

And when again it doesn’t end, the world, I head inside,
ignite the TV and sitcom away another day, wondering if
tomorrow the sky will get less boring, more biblical.