Nineveh, Again

“This, too, was a great city once, a city on a hill,”
I would say to Jonah, sitting beneath the shade
of a tree that sprouted up overnight. “This place,
too, seemed to come up out of nowhere.

A miracle, at least in the retelling, certainly not
to the 31 dead pilgrims, or the Natives,” I’d say,
offering him a piece of bread. “And I’ve waited
for the moon to fall apart, wipe the board.”

He’d smile, decline the broiled fish. “It’s evil
to wish for Armageddon, I know, but leaving
it as is, indolent and self-satisfied, barely worth
a warning—let it all go down, deep down.”

And Jonah’d go quiet, looking over the Rockies,
a herd of bison with fur like sackcloth, jazz clubs
on Bourbon Street, the caged flame of Liberty,
and the dark Atlantic waters. “Maybe,” he’d offer,

“Maybe we call it a night, who knows how long
this redwood or earth will be here, let us sleep
and we will either wake to Judgement Day or
another morning in America, like it or not.”