Again, the door opens.

The theologian
of the cul-de-sac
emerges
in his bathrobe, leans
over and picks up
a suspicious bag
resting on his front step.

Already, even
at this early hour
he is checking
variant sources

multiple independent
attestations

translating footprints
pressed down in his front yard
from the Aramaic
into Greek, and then
into English.

It is just
what he suspected.

The sky is still
a pre-apocalyptic
disappointment

the crack in the driveway
a later insertion
by a scribe

the snow in the air
a sign that something
still might happen.

Robert Tremmel lives and writes in Ankeny, Iowa. Recently, he’s published in Packingtown Review, Spillway, Poet Lore, Santa Fe Literary Review, Cold Mountain Review, The Fourth River, and others. He’s also published two collections and a Chapbook titled There is a Naked Man.