The world ended yesterday, and we overslept.
That global destruction, Armageddon, “the Mayans predicted it” thing.
Or the Aztecs. Or the Incas. One of those.
After 5 years of Spanish, I still can’t keep them straight.
The point is that we missed it. Missed that epic world-beater.
Two of us at the end of the world,
I’m Burgess Meredith reading his books at the post-nuclear library
in The Twilight Zone,
and you’re Linda Hamilton birthing her savior baby John Connor
in The Terminator.
Coffee for me, a mimosa for you. I could never hold my liquor,
especially in the morning after the end of the world.
So here we are sipping a sunrise Sunday morning reading the paper
on the patio. How’d you sleep?
How does this compare to the last time we slept through
the end of the world?
Good question. Philosophy. Metaphysics.
Calendars and stuff.
Mayan calendars with 20 days each that end sometime in December twenty-twelve,
or so we’ve heard.
You shower first. It’ll give you more time.
Stockings and flats and a nice subdued belt
with your hair up and those simple stud earrings.
No décolletage. No cleavage. It’s her funeral, after all.
I’ll need my black tie, white shirt and that dark suit
you bought me that I haven’t worn for so long.
Ends of the world don’t come very often.
Her son’s name is Juan.
The Mayans met a few guys named Juan
before they were annihilated at the end of the world,
and their calendars continued, marking time for the rest of us
who slept through it.