“Huge Asteroid Missed Earth, Another in 2029 May Not!”
They're out there, looking for them, in telescopes and shuttles,
because they can't see
them like I can.
I can feel them passing us in space, 2.1 million miles out but pressing down
on me. I hear them singing, buzzing, laughing.
They are waiting to get us.
They say a catastrophic asteroid hits the earth once every 100,000 years.
Do you remember the last one?
It could mean we're due.
I keep a chart of the night sky, next to an old photo of her, and mark each one I hear at night.
The hours tick by, I draw them with white marker on blue pages.
They're preparing for the big one to hit Antarctica.
They've built bunkers and underground shelters.
The secret military base under the ice won't be under the ice for long,
the oceans will rise 70 feet, we're all
gonna be swimming, then.
They say that one is coming in 2012, tipping their hats
to the ancient calendars in stone,
but I don't think that's the one.
The big one will be in 2029, Apophis.
Because the end of the world always has a name.
I think Apophis is already here, watching us,
I can hear him out there, sneaking around between Jupiter and Saturn, pretending at
being a little moon, mooning us.
Behind the sun, he's plotting
how he will end us,
embrace the ravished earth and strip her of her clothes,
but he doesn't know I'm listening.
I can stop him, when he comes.
I will fly away from earth in a copper rocket
with the world's last atomic bomb,
which are both stored in a grain silo in
Utah, which I have placed money down on
to buy. I will fly into Apophis
with the photo in my hand I will say her name one last time
before my molecules are melted,
and Superman couldn't have done it better.
That night, in Apophis's ashes,
the only sound the earth will hear
is her name, falling through space,
no more laughing comets,