Cereal Bowls and the Apocalypse
The morning after the calamity
when the grid went down,
and the crazies rose up -
martial law and roving packs
of lunatics, cannibals and
murderers roaming the
gray, lost wilderness,
a man sits alone at his
dinner table, watching the
fallout crack and bubble
on his window, a bowl
of granola before him.
Lift spoon, slurp, drop
spoon, lift spoon, slurp,
carrying on and on,
clinging to and to the
life we lived, the life
that's gone, the sweet
taste of honey, dribbling
down his lip.
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