The (very) End

Now, if a fabulous UFO
broad as a postcode
dropped from the clouds and hovered
so tower block and office block aerials
tickled the anti-clockwise rotation of its gun-metal underside,
I wouldn’t wake you.

I would close the windows
so the sharp, collective intake
of everyone in the world wouldn’t rouse you
from your puffy sleep.

I’d unplug the phone so ex-friends and family,
inspired to give you the benefit of the doubt,
couldn’t let you know the news.

And I’d get dressed in the other room,
brass teeth clicking as I slowly zipped up.
I’d spread my weight on the stairs
and pull the door softly closed,
stepping out in socked feet
into the pink, humming glow of a second chance

leaving you, mouth wide like a dead rodent,
chocolate flecks and pasty crumbs
caught on stubble.

Between each snore
the whole of humanity
zooms a further thousand light years away from you.
This is our reward.