the room falls silent.
we slide under our desks
while our teacher
plunges the room
into darkness
and locks the door.
he goes back to his desk,
grabs a baseball bat
and waits in
complete silence.
we built our village
next to a volcano,
and it's due to erupt.
this old high school
and my house
where my mom is no doubt
reading some novel
i would have no interest in
and the coffee shop
where i took my boyfriend
on our first date
will be buried by ash.
i guess i'll never
listen to that
pavement album
or finish watching
the queen's gambit
or read all those
thomas pynchon novels
or marry my boyfriend
or buy a nice house
near the forest
or go to therapy
or tell my dad
that i love him
and that i think he
did a good job
raising me
and that i just hope
he's proud of me,
but i am lucky.
others will be
found beneath the ash
thousands of years from now
by the archaeologists
in their homes
doing the dishes
or arguing on the phone
while walking down the street
or crying on a park bench
because their girlfriends left them.
i will be found on my feet,
ready.
the intercom beeps to life.
it was a drill.
the lights come back on,
i return to my seat,
and in five minutes
i barely remember.