Creatures Who Survived by James H. Duncan

beachfront snowfall lamentation, frigid waves 

lapping through the lobby door, vacancy 

as far as the eyes can see

 

out by the abandoned pier, nothing but the sounds 

of the ocean below, broken slats revealing obsidian

waves and shadows, broken timber, dark waters 

crisscrossed by darker creatures who survived the end

 

creatures like you, aimless anew

 

all you own now is the ticking of a wristwatch

a small room that smells of damp mold on the top 

floor of an old hotel forsaken by humanity and hope

until it too falls into the sea to join the rest, a cemetery 

littered with carnival prizes, tawdry bones buried 

in the murk, ‘til you too join them, aggrieved

 

when you’re gone, only ghosts will wade through 

that lobby door, sloshing through the brine and

moonlight, their eyes watching the darkness in the dark

for the inevitable stormfront we all tried to outlive, 

but it was too hungry, and when it came it took those

who fled as well as those who ran into its embrace, 

ignorant ‘til the end—and now you creatures 

who survived, wandering the detritus of decadence in

search of meaning, in search of dreams,

you are almost thankful for a place to go when you

slip beneath the dark seas, eager to find that other shore,

that other moonlit horizon, safe from the poisoned promises

of our communal failure, at last 

James H. Duncan is the editor of Hobo Camp Review and the author of Beyond the Wounded Horizon, Vacancy, and Feral Kingdom, among other books of poetry and fiction. He also reviews indie bookstores at his blog, The Bookshop Hunter. For more, visit www.jameshduncan.com.