by Glen Armstrong

It wasn’t as bad as they predicted.
In fact, I sat making spoons with a cute brunette in a red vinyl booth at the end of the world.

Every now and again we would break from our smooching
to watch the continents return to their state of fiery magma on the bar’s wide screen television.

The names of everything unique to our existence:
chicken fried steak . . .
community theater . . .
Woody Guthrie . . .
rolled from their teletext at the bottom of the screen for the last time.

Even before they disappeared forever, we had forgotten them.
Except Woody Guthrie.
We vaguely remembered him.

Glen Armstrong holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst, and teaches writing at Oakland University in Rochester, Michigan. He also edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters.