In Case of Apocalypse, Break Poem

We’ve wasted it—all. We've wasted
ducklings in ponds, beaks in mud, feathers
still fluff. Humanity wasted the great blue
heron moments, the flopping of sunshine
on fish scales from line to market or mouth.

We wasted the quiet days—the loud—the tiny
frogs in the yard, leaving holes so the grass
goes brown. We wasted a world where red
ear sliders knock on the front door and ask
for a ride, where every year the goslings are born
yellow before turning gray and gangly like
our 14-year-old sons. We have wasted
tomorrows even as we squinted through

binoculars to make out every future
minute. Those tomorrows became todays and we
couldn't be bothered anymore. We have wasted
freckles and hot showers, warm woolen socks
and opening our eyes, opening our mouths. Some
of us said too much. Some never talked

or listened. We wasted time complaining
to—about—cashiers and politicians, pecking
concrete painted with a weathered wood
finish. Our heads hurt. Our lips ache. We wasted
love. We kept too much of it, never tossed the seeds
of new ideas to feed the sparrows or squeezed sugar
water full of faith onto our hands and held still
for hummingbirds. We wasted our Scarecrow

brains and our tin man hearts. We wasted our
fingers, only counting on them, never giving
them away wrapped in yarn and flying, speaking,
reading the brailed texture of time.