I think that I'll end with this silly, silly little love poem,
actually.
Yeah.
Am I going to--
I never read this one.
Yeah, sure.
I'll do it.
[CHUCKLES] Thank you all so much for hanging out with us
and for hanging out with poems.
Again, thank you to everybody who in smaller, very large,
beautiful ways, makes the world of poetry and a life in poems
possible.
It is my dream.
This one's called Doom.
I'll end on a nice, happy one called Doom.
[LAUGHTER]
You've dreamed about it since you were a kid, a secret,
a funeral, a spreading cough.
And then it starts, the end, the whole terrible end.
For years, you've kept one eye on the shadows swilling
above the door, waiting for the arrival of the god of doom.
Oh, this is a pandemic poem.
I hope that's clear.
What to do now that he's here, sipping coffee in our kitchen?
We sneak glares from the sink, mutter apologies when
we bump in the hall.
He's an awful guest, of course, the god of doom,
tracks blood everywhere, cries when we feed him,
screams if we don't.
So we keep the freezer stocked with dumplings, black fruit,
beans to last a month.
We take turns hefting his bulk, keep
him placated with a soundtrack of pickaxes,
songs about death camps and microplastics,
circular fretting.
It's only a matter of time.
When it's storms, he yanks open the windows.
He polishes our worst parts, steals constantly.
At night, he raps at the wall behind our heads,
just as he did for 10,000 nights before he showed up,
just as he'll do for 10,000 nights after.
Meanwhile, well, you know, meanwhile, all our kin
is dying at a distance.
The coast's been burning for weeks.
Filling the kettle, you catch me humming, (SINGING) the dream
that you dream will come true.
And we laugh.
Though there's nothing funny but this.
We knew that end was coming here.
We knew it.
And like idiots, like perfect idiots, we stayed.
Thanks y'all.
[APPLAUSE]