There’s been a quiet apocalypse.
All the humans are gone.
Only birds remain. More than before.
That must be where they went.
I’ll kick in the Waterstones window,
gorge myself on useless knowledge.
Raid an art shop, teach myself to paint.
Find a piano, learn to play.
Stop worrying about languages.
The birds speak none of them.
Learn to grow fruit and vegetables.
Can’t have the last human getting scurvy.
Walk, run, feel air in my lungs,
strength in my legs.
Just think of all I can do,
now it’s all inconsequential.
I’ll write novels
and read them to the birds.