It’s 11:30 p.m on a Sunday,
And it’s clear that the household is falling asleep,
And it’s also clear
that the world is fucked; indeed,
we are on the brink of destruction…
(as in: going to blow up tomorrow
because two “leaders” with juvenile tendencies
are like name calling and threats).
there are cold leftover barbecued ribs in the frig,
and a smidge of decent bourbon sits on the kitchen counter.
So for one moment
(please), can we delay the end
of humanity and this precious planet —
while I stand (perhaps for the very last time)
leaning over the sink,
smeared with sauce, and glowing
under the fluorescent lights of God,
to gnaw on a bone and toss back
some smooth booze
in the unholy,
yet decidedly Holy name
of late night snacking?
© martha lee phelps