When the end is in sight we'll all stop talking in our sleep,

there will be no reason to dream, nothing to pray for

and no one to hear.

The green tea ice cream we Mecca through Chinatown

to buy on special occasions won't be worth any more than

the inch of Irish Whiskey sleeping on the fridge, shielding

forgotten postcards from stale dust and the broken bodies

of unfortunate ants.

When we know how it ends-the day, the season, the relationship,

the poverty, apathy, monotony, rage-

there will be nothing left but a room stripped of light and

the shadows our bodies would make if they were not

already swallowed by shadows.

Echoing on the stairs we would hear what the

two year old was singing on the train, we would feel

alone again and slightly empowered. In a vortex

reminiscent of nothing, some pangs

of productivity will return, I promise.