The music offered little prophylaxis
for the grim climactic changes
occurring at that very moment.
Freely indulging their passion for song,
the assembled singers trilled until twilight
but it was too late to regain the lost
hair and flaking skin and fallen arches
of yesteryear; that ship had sailed.
“That’s why we wore the shoes we did
back in the day when the future looked
like a shapely horse waiting to take
us all on the ride of our lives.”
Night waits for them like an unlit train—
All aboard! before the candies melt in your pockets.
And who were you before the rain?
Another man? Another woman?
It doesn’t matter to me, I’m on the next rocket
out of here, but as plain as the nose
on that face in the mirror—we chose
this storyline from many shelved
by failed scribblers and porn-hub purveyors.
How’s it going, eh? I don’t know, eh.
And so the choir has a date with destiny
in the form of shook metal sheets and blue
streaks of lightning. Hey guys, check out the view.
Doesn’t it frighten you, doesn’t it deal
a body blow to your existential equilibrium?
People stick their drowsy, frowzy heads
out of broken windows. Look at them,
stoked to open fire on the bloody choir.
What’s wrong with us, collectively speaking?
What isn’t wrong, speaking on behalf of me?
