Music Is Not My Trade

Once I read a book
Pretending to be
From the point of view
Of the last woman—
The last anyone—

The last animal,
She seemed to believe—
Left roaming an Earth
Turned global buffet
And vast museum

For her memories—
Unreliable,
Unlikely, except
Exactly correct
Spelling high-brow names.

I wanted her real.
I wanted her sane.
I wanted her world
To be as empty
As her typed words claimed—

But I knew a man
Among reference works
Wrote her up for show—
An automaton.
And then she was gone.