The cannibals are out tonight

Wet dogs clean themselves

better than this fatty

bus slopped with age

that streaks its wear

into me with each bump

and I wonder

if the first astronauts looked back

and asked where they were going

to go now

because they’d never get off at that

stop again where toothpicks

poke up, up, up

pretending to be

trees.

It is finished.

It is accomplished.

Over and out.

*

It’s the Armageddon

but we’ve gone on living

like there’s still Saturday morning cartoons

and the drinks will always cold be

even in the sun

while you crunch on a Nutella sandwich

and you hold my hand as though

it were the last on earth

and your life depended on it.

The Nutella drips

blood onto my

free hand

and you cry

and the cannibals are out tonight

licking their lips

in delight.

*

She said she

cheated on me

and I think that

I don’t know a poem

that has been written

for that type of sadness

but I do know this story,

though it isn’t much,

of two people

who spent years together

only to spend the rest of their lives

apart.

I can’t remember if that’s

the ending, but the beginning

is a bit fuzzy too –

it’s been so long.