The Eternal Pleasures of Greek Omelets and Love

The day after the rumor of bodies disappearing,
having leapt, some said, into an admonished sky,

Called home a nervous voice on the radio put it,
my lover and I order Greek omelets at Ruth’s Diner.  

They are good, filled with feta and drowned
in a sauce the locals call Greek. Taking our order,

the waitress smiles like she always does. Something
about the creases in her uniform is disarming,

and I am surprised it matters so many of us are left.  
I almost say, Left behind, but behind would suggest

three dimensional space, which would be too much
of a simplification for the end of things. Though

as far as my lover or I can tell, nothing has ended.
Our Greek omelets are as good as the last time

we had them, before this murmuring one old fellow says
he’s sure comes from angels. Says we can hear them

now, after, though not perfectly. Only odds and ends,
is how he puts it. That’s why they sound confused.

Angels, he says, can never be confused, not
with the Lord’s music echoing in their bodies,

if what they have can be called bodies. We don’t care
about the crazed architecture under the flesh

of angels. My lover and I just want to walk home,
the addled humming of angels accompanying us,

and lie together in this world minus some number
of bodies and touch familiar architectures until

we have to take everything off and make whatever love
can be made in the dimming light with the dazed,

melodious humming of angels on this, the day after
the rapture, and discover, amazed, pleasure’s still possible.









George Looney’s sixth collection of poetry is Monks Beginning to Waltz (Truman State University Press, 2012), and his fifth is A Short Bestiary of Love and Madness (Stephen F. Austin State University Press, 2011). He chairs the BFA in Creative Writing program at Penn State-Erie, where he edits Lake Effect and co-directs The Chautauqua Writers’ Festival.