The Last Person On Earth
The Last Person on Earth Visits His Neighbour
March 13, 2066
Today I invite myself into the home
of a missing neighbour. The house alarm
seems excited to see me. I let it shout on
because my own calls for help never came back.
The living room aquarium is a desert
strewn with bones of fish and a cat
who had his last meal here.
The wife left a grocery list on the fridge
for a husband who never read.
A cracked coconut on the counter
looks like a shrunken head,
but all the dishes are clean
and ready to serve
from a fridge full of colours.
The master bed is not made up;
its blanket twisted into the shape of nightmare.
Perhaps they knew it would be a bad day.
Nothing runs through the house now,
save a few battery toys
that keep running into walls.
The doghouse out back is still occupied.
The dog's skull and toenails rest
on the doorsill, his toy ball in the yard
half eaten.
The family tried to hide in the cellar,
where posed like their dog,
you'll find them still.
***
The Last Person on Earth Visits the Airport
March 17, 2066
Along the runways are great metal birds
parked with their wings spread for gliding.
Nothing above reminds of their glory days,
their exhaust fumes writing across the sky.
In the terminal the only sound
is my footfall on the polished floor
and a FAX machine warning of a paper jam.
Such a quiet place now
where one can hear oneself think,
where one can almost read the thoughts
of those no longer here.
Which line shall I stand in
that will take me back
to when there were too many of us
and more airplanes than birds,
more smoke to breathe than air.
***
The Last Person on Earth Goes for a Drive
March 20, 2066
Its odometer reads zero
as I drive it off the dealer lot.
It occurs to me that it is counting
in the wrong direction from humans.
Every mile it adds is one
taken away from me.
There is no oil shortage now,
no lines at the pump,
and I can drive any loud-farting
muscle car I want.
But something tells me not to exhaust
the air, not to be the same bad breath
my species has always been.
I'll take a deep breath
and walk today
as far as my kind can go.
***
The Last Person on Earth in a Traffic Jam
March 24, 2066
This morning I car-pooled to work by myself,
parked in front of the red hydrant,
tightened my Windsor knot,
and went in wondering if anything
is still working, if anyone I knew haunts
the top story of my building, if I'll choke
at the transparent specter of my boss
chewing out some red-faced drone
who lay down on the job.
But not a soul showed up
in the mirrors, and a flush of fear
kept me from looking at myself.
Instead I reflected on the slow drive home
how only humans could obey a one-way street,
how every block was losing power,
how in both directions every light was red.
***
The Last Person on Earth Runs for President
March 27, 2006
It seems almost a dream come true
as I enter the football stadium
where I am the featured speaker.
I thank those who made this possible
and wave to the standing-room onlys.
I speak of the need for teamwork:
"With your help I will not fail.
Crime, disease, poverty, pollution
have all disappeared on my watch.
I need your absentee ballots now
to make sure none comes back."
My own applause drowns out theirs.
"I think they bought it," I whisper off camera.
If I must say so myself,
I believe this is one of my most
influential speeches.
***
The Last Person on Earth Goes Bar Hopping
March 31, 2066
I went to Sodom, red light district, to catch the lights
where the twisted neons still strobe to a beat
of the looping recorded songs on autoplay,
where only shadows of lights dance on the stage,
and the air conditioner overcools
when no people heat up the room.
On the streets the taxi cabs wait for passengers,
for drivers, their meters running wild.
It was a night here that all beneath the lights
welcomed death at once, when for a moment
the music stalled, when the lights tied up
in knots. No one knows why this moment
blew in like a storm, blew all eyes shut
to see themselves in mirrors on the lids.
Only know they sickened at the sight,
their scars reopened into salted wounds--
that they staggered outside to the alley,
lay down with the rats, needles, and garbage,
their bodies flogged by the flashing lights
as the bass rhythms inside
pounded them from this life.
Perhaps their mirrors, but certainly
their bones still catch the lights.
