I Do Not Always Feel Sad When I Think About Humankind’s Eventual Mass Extinction
Today in the park, roses
dormant, the foliage all
undressed for the wretched
months to come, my daughter
waving from her stroller
at squirrels, I heard the hawks
circling, and there it was
by a trash can: two toilets
torn from a house flip, dropped
by some sketchy builder here
instead of a dumpster
with proper permits, chipped
and rust-stained, the wreckage
of somebody’s home wedged
in the mud along our path.
My best friend likes to say
things can always get worse
but when at last our ruin
comes — supervolcano or
asteroid or climate change
and its spreading deserts
and its warlords battling
for what little food
and potable water
still remain — there may be
a moment (between
its launch and the furthest
ripple of a missile’s
detonation) when for once
it’s bad as it will be.