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).
And yet.

And yet….
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