Too late

I am the last of my kind, but what do you care?
There will be no more after me:
my offspring have all predeceased me,
persecuted to death, every one,
or fallen prey to pestilence, to poison,
to pollution, or just pig-ignorance

I sit here, waiting to die

Oh, don’t get me wrong:
I am looked after meticulously,
cared for by a dedicated team
who mollycoddle me, manage me,
make sure I am comfortable

But I am sad

I have nothing to live for:
my kind’s a fading memory,
soon to be another symbol
of a mass extinction that shows no sign
of letting up, each moment a wasting away
of another species, another branch
of a tree, another organism

I am the last of my kind, but what do you care?
You will only sit up, take notice,
when things start to fall apart, systems fail,
when that meticulous looking after
that you take for granted, that mollycoddling,
ceases to exist, when no one is there
to make sure you are comfortable

When you do start to care, it’ll be too late:
the polar caps will have melted,
the seas will rise up, the winds will blow,
the power will become intermittent
and then stop. The food will run out
and your kind will have fallen prey
to wars or plagues, to floods or droughts,
and all because of pig-ignorance

You may then be the last of your kind
and there will be no one to care;
and you too will be sad
and will sit there waiting to die
and it will be too late

A piece of dramatic monologue, a final homework composed for a creative writing class


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