poem for the apocalypse

On the fringes of the world 
I’d like to build a kitchen table

It’d be lengthy, and sturdy, made of a rough 
wood harvested from the felled trees
We would abolish chairs, sit 
on its exposed surface,
trace time with our fingers

Then: 
wine long gone, we’d pour open
the fermented anger

There: 
our long-abandoned humanity.

It would glisten, 
and it would be
just sweet enough