On the last day
people were still doing
the things people do
when they think there will be
another day.
At a dentist’s office in Connecticut
a woman was updating
the emergency contact
for an insurance plan
that covered almost nothing.
In Ohio
a man in garden gloves
stood in front of stacked mulch
trying to decide
whether dark brown
looked richer
than black.
In Phoenix
a printer would not connect.
A man in a polo shirt
turned it off,
turned it on,
said piece of shit
with real feeling.
In Leeds
someone was halfway through
a video called
five mistakes you are making
with cast iron.
In Antwerp
someone cut the soft parts
out of potatoes
and kept going.
A substitute teacher
with old coffee breath
wrote the date on the board
for a room full of students
on their phones.
A teenager in Baltimore
took twelve pictures
of her own face
and hated each one
for a different reason.
A man in Hamburg
sat outside a supermarket
with the engine off
listening to a song
he had assigned
to the divorce.
At a storage unit
two brothers argued
about which box
had the Christmas ornaments
and which one
had their mother.
At a nail salon
someone said
I know this sounds crazy
but the whole world
feels weird lately
and three people nodded
without looking up.
In break rooms
people ate standing up.
In kitchens
people peeled film
off microwaved noodles.
In offices
people moved numbers
from one screen
to another.
The men who had built
the language for it
were already sealed away
behind concrete, codes,
air systems,
little flags on polished desks.
Everybody else
was resetting passwords,
buying shower caddies,
checking tracking numbers,
opening messages
that began
just following up,
just checking in,
just circling back.
A man in a supermarket
stood with two jars of pasta sauce
under the white aisle lights
when the windows flashed.
A woman in Kraków
was clipping coupons.
A roofer in Texas
straightened up too slowly.
A banker in London
typed hope you’re well
to a man
he hoped would choke.
There were dogs
waiting by doors.
There were avocados
giving up on counters.
There were ring lights
and air fryers
and unread novels
and one more package
marked delivered.
There were fathers
pretending not to be irritated.
There were mothers
hiding in bathrooms
for three minutes alone.
There were people
putting collagen
under their eyes
as if the face
still had a long future in it.
At an airport bar
a man was explaining bourbon
to a woman
who had already decided
never to sleep with him.
At a church rummage sale
someone asked
does this lamp work
and someone else said
it did last week.
Then the sky opened
the wrong way,
with light that meant
the discussion was over.
Glass came in.
Walls changed shape.
Air took the furniture first.
Then the roofs.
Then the names of things.
Across the cities
the columns went up,
those ugly flowers
the species had been working toward
through speeches, contracts,
patriot songs,
careers in defense,
little men on panels
saying stability
with straight faces.
And an hour earlier
what had the species
been doing?
Coupons.
Lip balm.
Protein powder.
Fantasy leagues.
Back pain.
Tires.
Meal prep.
The group chat.
The rash on the elbow.
The basil going bad.
A meeting about brand voice.
A war explained
by men who would never smell
what burned.
We had filled the planet
with beige furniture,
subscription plans,
patriotic garbage,
plastic vines,
podcasts about discipline,
cameras in doorbells,
water sold in moral language,
and the old talent
for calling slaughter
a matter of position.
We had turned loneliness
into an industry.
We had turned attention
into livestock.
We had turned killing
into a briefing.
Then all of it stopped.
No more reminders.
No more moisturizer.
No more gently used sectional.
No more visibility.
No more brave opinions
typed with both thumbs.
No more asking for thoughts and prayers
from people
who had none to spare.
Only the fire
finding everything with an address.
Only the black weight
rolling upward.
Only the roads
full of nowhere.
Only the long mistake
finally visible from a distance.
