Just Our Last Apocalypse

Our last era after
The few we’ve known in our
Handsomely brief fashion.

Call it the sixth era,
And then say, solemnly,
Our last one. Leave the rest.

The paperwork can wait.
Can you, at seventy-eight,
Whatever age you’ve made?

Hard not to have in mind
Some apocalyptic
Landscape, setting aside

Apocalypse would have
To be traversed before—
No post apocalypse

Before apocalypse,
And wasn’t that the bit
You’d been hoping to miss?