Drunken Tanka

by Kenneth Lynn Anderson

Nothing lasts. The glass
tabletop will crack. The chrome
legs will peel. The man
on the sofa will crumble to
the bone and blow away.

A mushroom sifts white
from shadows — a mushroom cloud,
the ash and white smoke
from incinerated haiku
in port Nagasaki.

As I walked the dog,
the night was calm: the elm black,
the sky gray, the moon
pieces of a broken cup
picked up piece by piece by leaves