Not so much The End of The World as the end of humanity
and whatever unlucky animals we take down with us.

Every nice day, I think about the last nice day.
The final Spring. The last flower that dies

in a world with people in it. In the future will there be
a human version of the crocodile, the water bear?

I’ve been thinking about the world when we become
dinosaurs, and also the dinosaurs: I think about

the sounds they made when they were dying—
not just in the fire, but after. The ones that lived

to see the cold, everlasting dark of ash-cloud night.
I wonder what they’d think of us.

But back to this human crocodile, and what will look at it,
and how. Will some tentacled arm reach out to tap the glass

of an aquarium and read a plaque about how this thing’s
ancestors operated heavy machinery and had opposable thumbs?

Were we a meteoric species, destined to burn?
When we’re the dinosaurs no one will feel sorry for us.

When we’re the dinosaurs, the crocodiles
will look at each other and say finally.