The end can’t come soon enough,
was the attitude everyone took. Maybe
suicide or maybe an end to this forever
shift. Tonight

 

you’ll drink a few IPAs at that chic uptown brewery,
hit the pillow buzzed and pop
generic ibuprofens after sunrise.
Somewhere in Ancient Rome

 

a guy takes a righteous piss
on a stone wall, paranoid about whatever
they called cops back then.
You won’t find that in a textbook.

 

In no textbook will you find how people felt
when the sun exploded, because that hasn’t happened yet.
The end can’t come soon enough, so let’s turn
everything into mathematics or learn to play

 

the tenor sax. “It’s post-impressionistic,”

said the tour guide, even though I never asked.

You ordered too many appetizers and you’re full as hell,
but that’s never stopped you before has it?