Missing Earthquakes

A tremor really.
Not a real earthquake.
5:37 in the morning
From far up the border near Canada.
3.1 magnitude, with ripples.
The instruments barely felt it here.

But the locals are already at the diner,
trading tales.
It is a wonder any of us survived.

I missed it. Sleeping my last few minutes of slumber,
blissfully in bed.
A habit I have, missing earthquakes
until the earth yaws open
and swallows me alive.

About this poem

We really did have an earthquake up here in the Northeast. A tiny little thing. The west coast would laugh at us for even talking about it. But here at my second chance diner, it is the main topic of conversation.

I really did sleep through it.

I tend to get blindsided a lot in my life.

From all that, this poem.

Tom