we all ride that cosmic escalator
into the afterlife
except the billionaires
in their bunkers
beneath the blistered ground.
every other life form
has called it quits—
no tree but skeleton trunks
fossilized to granite sky, no animal,
no, no animal.
still, the plan stands: the longer
the better. underground, it’s fluorescent
white light all year, steady
as time with no sunsetting anchor
around which to swing itself.
the ski resort (there must be
a ski resort) blasts fake snow.
behind the white-muraled walls
there’s a glittering maze of dining halls,
saltwater swimming pools, acres
of waxy potato plants. the wind
is electric exhalation and extinct birdsong
plays on repeat. it feels
not like the world, it feels like
the not-world, not-breathing not-dying
not-real.
the billionaires are adorably confused.
something is not right they murmur,
bumping their little balding heads
against the asphalt walls. somewhere
in the past, a great miscalculation
was made. this is what
we stuck around for?
meanwhile
we’re sailing up into the atmosphere,
looking down on all that no longer is,
waving, serene.