PS Cottier

				
The last woman looks up, languid,
at the three moons hanging
in the sky, and thinks of fruit,
although she’s not seen an apple
for ten years. How strange to be
the last woman, she thinks,
you’d think I’d be extraordinary,
rather than simply the last.
She scratches her scalp, realises
that the bugs will outlast her,
for at least for a week or so.
She feels she should record thoughts,
have a sudden itch for poetry,
erupting like a wordy pimple.
But there would be no-one to read it,
should she drum out an elegy,
despite that superfluity of moons,
enough to drive a Wordsworth mad.
She decides to nap the species
into oblivion. The last woman yawns.

PS Cottier

The book of poems made up of those originally published on this blog, called Tuesday’s Child is Full, has received a couple of positive reviews recently; here and here. That’s at Compulsive Reader and The Canberra Times. Both like the humour, which is refreshing.