Your Sunday Poem

Here's a sly, wickedly savage, wonderful poem to share from a new (to me) poet, Erin Belieu.  Oh, bad king Louis XV,  you're sooo right.

Apres Moi 

is pest, is plague, is
global atrophy, desire
insipid, the single
Saltine in its crumpled
sleeve.  Future of
courtesy balance and
hysterical number,
markets depressed,
a bottomed-out
G.D.P.
       Oh yes,
it all goes up,
Kablooey!  Good luck
enjoying those bonfires
with no s'mores!
           Big, BIG
mistake, to make this
life without me.  So
when the horsemen
descend on your
address, ride jiggety-
clop to your
empty door,
            you
can exlain this mess.
I won't live here
anymore.  To you,
I bequeath
a world where cupboards
stick, with nothing left
to creak for.