I read of a family

On their way to a car crash,

How they fussed the last 

47 minutes of their lives

Over what kind of cheese the moon was made of,

And died in strife

As their car was hit head on

By an eighteen wheeler 

That had crossed the line

Into the oncoming lane,

Distracted by texting his lover who’d written

That she didn’t want to see him again.

Only the youngest brother survived 

Who had huddled down in his seat,

Crouched in a fetal position to try

To avoid the heated argument. 

And the trucker also lived

Because he was drunk.

And maybe coronavirus is the least of our worries 

As we hurtle toward the sun.

If this is the planet’s last 47 minutes,

I don’t want to spend them

Arguing, fussing, being afraid, 

Or drunk, or stoned.

I want to be in love.

I want to be alone

With only you.

-jenn