The Apocalypse Smells Like Wet Dog

Nobody told me
to dress for an apocalypse
black raincoat,
sweater yellow
‘To match the bees,’ I said,
only they’ve all disappeared
and the leaves are melting red and gold
into the ground.

My jeans are cuffed
because that’s trendy
the zombies shuffling past don’t care
about my jeans
they look away, cross the street
as if my puppy is going to pop their bubble
with her little teeth,
lucky for them she’s not scary,
just soggy.