To Bed

A poem, I guess.

On the day the world ends, the government sends everyone home to bed.
"Nobody is essential," they say. "Not anymore. We want to go home, too. It's okay. It's all over."
I have a bed to lie in while I wait and a warm body to wait next to me
But I wonder, as I wait for the shoe to drop, what about those who didn't?
Did the billionaires and landlords and everyone throw up their hands and let the homeless into the thousands of now-worthless beds?
Will they give them now in death something that was only of use in life?
If they threw open their doors it would be the biggest news story of the century
But I can't check the news
Because the newscasters are all at home in bed.
It gets darker, and I wonder if it's the shadow of a cloud
or something much larger rushing fast towards North America.
And I wonder if it's better to imagine everyone will be in bed the day the world ends
or to understand that some people,
some people,
some people will not be.