Ten

Of all the prophecies
truly or falsely made,
few can rival
a Mayan calendar's terminal date
for lack of factual basis
on which to rest an expectation
of apocalyptic changes.

Yet they come.

Whose interests

are so mightily served
by the propagation
of this arbitrary date,
its consecration
with the credible immutability
of cosmic cycles?

“As unavoidable as gravity!”
booms a synthesized voice
from the soundless mile-wide
shimmering white metal disk
hovering motionless
just under the clouds.

I remember lights

in the sky at night—
star-brilliant flashing beams,
some red,
others green or blue.

I remember impossible maneuvers

by lightning-fast craft
of varying forms,
functions and designs,
none of which
involved wings.

I remember panic and confusion

in the streets,
thousands fleeing,
nowhere to hide.

I remember being calm.

Even then,

it wasn’t my first time.

It wasn’t yours

either.