In days before hell swallowed,

I’d sit on a bench reading news,

and watching how lead ducks followed

while marching down in ones and twos.

They went into shallow water —

floating time bombs, drifting slowly,

wishing they hadn’t sons or daughters

to die among creatures lowly.

“The end is nigh! The END is nigh!”

called a junky from yonder shore.

He was twisted and floating high,

and had too much of being more.

But now my window sits broken.

The land is flattened as my mind.

Moving lips tell not what’s spoken

from a vantage point wedged behind…