Jake Onyett
Jake Onyett is a U.S. Navy veteran who was born in Canada, raised in the United States, and currently lives in Italy. His poetry appears/will appear in Abstract, Chiron Review, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Two Thirds North and elsewhere.
A Snag in the Plan for the End of the World
Not a terrible idea
to plan ahead for when the world ends.
To go about it incrementally – a few days procuring
pallets of canned goods, a few days pre-empting
survivor’s guilt. Dividing the lot between bug-out bags,
go-bags, and your final destination. A couple handheld radios,
a folding shovel and kukri knives. Drawers full of
various types of batteries. Blue gel and honey bucket
dry toilets. Bulk vitamins and freeze-dried mint
chocolate chip ice cream. Compressed tabs of methenamine
and wax. Stacks of pondered lists of things to do
in the event of…
Saturation only way to be sure,
you are sure of it. But sometimes you fear becoming over-prepared,
and try to prepare for that contingency too. Nagging worry
that you’ll step outside after it happens, into the barren ruins,
and be disappointed at what survived apart from you.
Each passerby giving head-nod greetings masked by dust-covered
faces that seem to mean more, considering.
You are one of us, we are we. The rush of being proven right.
Of having bribed, each month for ages, the only surviving doctor
on your diversified list. Of having an underground
bunker in your backyard, secured and brimming
with essentials. Of having moved years ago, away from
the east side of town and its shallow water table,
so you could dig in more optimally loamy soil. Of an
unmarked entrance and a steely reluctance to share supplies
with needy folks who congregate near your driveway
after having heard the rumors.
Maybe you need a break from this,
forever prepping for the end of everything but yourself.
Maybe today you’ll venture to the Kemah boardwalk
and listen to seagulls impose themselves
over the din of the waves. Stubborn, like
two trains in constant collision on a single track.
Maybe you’ll head home with fresh pompano from Rose’s.
Maybe to hell with forever,
at least for today.
