Guests at Our Country Place

by Brett Rutherford

Apocalypse impending,
guests flock
to our country home.

The vising Surrealist painter
arranged our furniture
at impossible angles,
then signed his name
on our ceiling.

When you sell,
he assures us,
you can name your price.

The visiting poet,
eats but doesn’t write,
burns up the last
of our emergency
candles for inspiration.
As hint we put
his suitcase at the door.
He moves it back.
The guest room smells
of ganja
and burnt paper.

The visiting English prof
found the cream sherry,
the Riesling wine.
Empty bottles,
green-stemmed Rhine glasses
toppled and broken;

our daughter

seduced.

This being a rural town
we can call the police
from a remote location
to report a trespass.

The resulting raid
with paramiltary gear
will clear the lot out
since sheriffs now
come in shooting
and sort out who
at the county morgue.