Count Down

A poem by Robin Morgan...Go buy her poetry and her literature and stuff...

Survival is the final offer

that arrives at the eleventh hour

just when pain to the tenth power

would kill you with another ninth degree.

By then, relief strikes you brief as an eighth note;

you wear doom proudly; it's your seventh seal.

But life whispers through your sixth sense

of what might await you in some fifth dimension

where miracle is saved for the fourth quarter.

Tricked, you sigh and rise on the third day.

You know better, but with no second thought,

risk that first step-absurd as first love at first sight

as if you were back at ground zero, as if it cost

nothing, as if this were not the last laugh.