When all the flash boys
have departed, packed up their
gutter language and departed the scene,
leaving behind those broken pint glasses,
discarded syringes, used condoms,
I will turn to you, my darling, here
in this graffitti-stricken car park
and speak of Euripides, the man
who foretold it all, the future world
he never lived to see. Your eyes
glaze over, you want to speak of love
as if a man and a woman
can lose themselves in each other
and set the world aside
now and forever.
Suicide, I think,
is one response;
marriage another.
