Our Last Night on Earth

We’ll all know. No asteroid or explosion,
just the clocks of the world
flipping from 11:58 to 11:59 to nothing.

We’ll all choose how to spend it.
Some will take a trip, drive until
the tank empties or time stops.
Some will stay home, read
bedtime stories with watery voices.

One last plate of spaghetti.
Red wine. Mom’s meatloaf. Dutch
butter cookies. Deep dish pizza. Ice cream.
A first taste of octopus. Dinner
in the restaurants of so many first dates.

Almost everyone who can have sex will.
People who should break up won’t.

I’ll want to be alone, here in this room.
I’ll open the window and wonder,
wish to let go, but instead
I’ll close my eyes, tight and tense
as when saw cuts bone on the movie screen.