March of the End of Days
Ella Goodman
I wipe my ass with the newspaper funnies
As time holds its breath, and we do too.
The clock abandons its place on the wall,
Counts corpses instead of minutes,
And spins cartwheels on the ceiling
Where it hangs itself quietly-
Kicking into its noose fashioned from
Double masked I-love-yous.
Slinking down deserted streets, we finally know silence;
Staring down the barrel of the end of days.