end of the world

The window at the
end of the world
does not overlook
a cliff;
no roaring water
dashing against a
rocky wall.
It’s just a street,
plain and simple,
tarmac and chrome;
broken cars and
tired limbs,
scrubby beards
and fallen kings.
Young men
outnumber the old –
they’ve come looking
for answers
to questions
they were never told.
So the members
of a broken band
keep composing
rebellious tunes
and beg the others
to throw over
the world.
The kings look sad;
they know why they
are here – the drugs
disappeared as kingdoms fell.
And the young men?
They are here on their own
and so they drink
themselves dead and
the drugs bring them
pleasure
when they sway
to the tugging
of the strings by
members of the broken band.
And at the corners of
broken-down buildings
there are hunch-backed
poets
who sit and scream loudly.
The women are not walking,
nor sitting –
here they fly among
and dance with
the clouds that woo
them over and over.
They are smiling.