Joy-Ride at the End of Time

Moon in the sky unmoving
Ice on the barren plain
Three thousand miles from hearth to hearth,
If any still remain

Knock, and the door collapses
A corpse in the dust, and cans,
More than two arms can encompass.
Fuel, for that rusted van?

Wrest a still from the wreckage
Plunder and break and burn
Bask by the flame and the brew-pot
Refine. Find a key that turns

A stall, a shudder, and silence.
Steel, copper, vinegar. Hope.
Hour and tinkering hour.
Despair. Down tools.

Was that smoke?

Grumbling, shuddering moving,
Load luggage, “shotgun!”, and drive.
Race the wind ­— clutch the ice — skid — spin
Shatter —

alone
frozen
nowhere

Alive

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