And then our lunches sour. And the junior college
empties. Our hot water heater breaks. The heavens, too
grow cold. Or do you not
think so far ahead?
Something gives me a great/awful feeling about the direct address in the final line and a half. I'm so glad it didn't end before that question--like saying it's my, me, own fault for sitting at my computer reading this poem and letting the heavens grow cold. Yeah.