After the apocalypse
being banned from the 23rd Street Library
won’t seem like such a big deal.

After the apocalypse
the fact that I never got around
to throwing out my old LPs
will turn out to be a good thing,
once I get my hands on
another hand-crank record player
(after the first one breaks).

After the apocalypse
all this extra weight
is gonna be a distinct advantage
over you superfit people.
You’ll be wasting away,
all the supermarkets having been previously looted
but I’ll be living off of blubber
for maybe six months.
Then I’ll be fit
and you’ll be gone.

After the apocalypse
maybe Maggie’ll like me.

After the apocalypse
and everyone on the Eastern seaboard
but me
is dead
and I wander these streets
a thinner ghost
of my former self
wondering what I should do
to while away the hours
the self-loathing poems I write
are gonna be a whole lot shorter.