Postanthropocene

Fear for the feral and synanthropic
Who may, when your species goes, be the first
To suffer, like the collaborators
And the black-market gangsters in the hills
Once the occupying army departs.

How will the pigeons, rats, and cockroaches,
The sparrows, deer, raccoons, and dingoes fare
Once they once again face competition
For resources in lands without humans,
No fresh garbage, no parks, no leftovers?

You don’t know. You can’t know. You may find out
Whether aliens are out there, whether
Black holes do or do not eat all data,
Whether any of your dark things exist,
But you’ll never know who thrives once you’re gone.