With a Whimper

In the middle of the world ending,
I count my change on the coffee table:
quarters for rapture,
dimes for absolution,
pennies for the ferry.
Low-lying pantomimes in subway tunnels;
from the ceilings of planes.
(“Be sure to adjust your own mask before helping others")
Years from now we'll look back
and mark this day in our calendars as historic. Isolated bees and trees and factories.
Skin into latex.
I'll leave for the wilderness,
starting today-
take refuge in moss and Sasquatch;
go blind to silent cities and stadiums.
The coins are for the fortuneteller-machine,
with unblinking eyes and plastic teeth:
fire, ice, whimpers, and disease.