But here I lean swigging black beer
listening to colleagues diss cocaine and curse
and reminisce about the binges of yore
every drink
hardens my silence
they scream magic names
clown to music that isn’t there
and roar at the same joke twenty times
holding their hourglass heads
sick with glee
I understand
why we’re running,
the sickness of the reality we hail from,
but this all seems like such dreadful waste
I wish
I could shake us awake
for it’s not too late
we could still turn this battleship around
but if we don’t act soon
it will rain knives
our blood, signed by the cosmos,
will be baked into burnt cakes
and the survivors will build houses in the trash