The sky is a deflated balloon.
The children are spinning, compass needles on the fritz.
Shucked out to sea go the world’s beaches.
The sparrows that always eat our grass seeds have flown off.
There’s a hole where the sun used to be.
No use cleaning off the graffiti in the alleyway.
What’s the use of cleaning anything anymore?
One last poutine for the road.
Live tweeting the apocalypse is one helluva pastime, you say.
More like a vocation, my voice an echo.
All we have left is poetry and silence.
