Tonight might be the night
Vesuvius erupts again

We might all
be buried alive
under eleven metres
of sudden ash
seated at our tables
in this Sorrento restaurant
cringing
like that man
from two thousand years ago,
arms protecting his face

Or we might be found
lying in our beds
like those two men
in glass cases
you can walk right up to
and inspect,
teeth bared in terror,
skeletons preserved
in grimy plaster

We made love three times
the night it happened,
such a beautiful night
to make a baby
Love went rippling
along every nerve
and into every sinew,
pumping up every muscle

More likely, I'll be found
lying alone in a bed
of lava stone
like that woman
four months pregnant,
preserved
for some lonely tourist
to walk around
and inspect
in the year 4000,
breasts engorged
stomach fattened

with no man at home
in Australia
who's afraid
of a live burial

© Margaret Metz