When the Apocalypse Hits at High Noon, We Sit Down for a Drink

By Preston Smith

Consider the end of the world.

We’ll drink coffee in the courtyard

spit out loose grounds onto the dirt around us

simmer in our sins as the sun turns red.

They’ll tell us to bunker in the basement

as if this were a tornado. I leave the sink to overflow

before pouring our coffee, tell him the earth

won’t save us again—relax for the first time.

I won’t bother to look at how it’s ending.

I’ve felt bombs burst in my body every day

that I almost got caught with him, my personal

climate change in adaptation to his.

We were always the aliens, so we don’t fear

those either. Whatever has come has come

and whatever will be will be—divined.

The sun will still shine without us.

Someday we’ll talk about the color yellow

the poppy fields we would sneak away to

the bedroom we painted in our first house

how, in the end, he still takes his coffee black.


Preston Smith (he/him) is an MA candidate and poetry editor, and his debut chapbook Red Rover, Red Lover released in early 2020. He can be found on Twitter @psm_writes and Instagram @psm_writes. His poems appear in Black Bough Poetry, Nightingale & Sparrow, and Pink Plastic House, among others.

This piece is a part of DISTANCED 2.0.

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