Altar

9,000 robot attendants,

he said. I could picture them,

bright as alabaster while the world

decays, atoms shearing off

into the night. I imagine

a burning winter

of poison ash and skies

congested, chock full

of our final error. 

I imagine them puttering

around like Humbert

before the fall,

scrubbing plates unused,

creasing sheets undisturbed.

Not a word passes

between them. 

There is no yielding

to the end. And when 

the altar crumbles,

they’ll set to sweeping the earth.