In the end,
when the bombs ran out, and the air ran out,
and we had pretty much screwed everything over a hundred times,
we fit the world into a room for one last meal.

It was a large room, underground,
maybe the size of two football fields.
In the center, strategically close to the heating ducts,
we erected great mahogany tables with firm but cushioned chairs,
brought out the finest silverware and food we could find,
and sat all the surviving Westerners and leaders
and men of importance.

In rows of plastic chairs along the walls we sat
the Russians, the Thais, the Chinese, and so on,
and gave them boxes and boxes of stuffed-crust pizza.

With what room we had left, we set blankets and fit as many
Africans and South Americans as we could,
cross-legged, kneeling, leaning against each other,
gathered in circles around small fires with rice and beans.

After dinner, we got bored and started walking among them,
handing out leftover desserts,
laughing with them as they told jokes in broken English,
learning trite phrases in their thousand native languages,
every now and then snapping pictures.

We built a stage in front of the tables,
invited them to come sing and dance for us,
We leaned back in our chairs, patting our stomachs,
talking about the good old days.