From the sun lounge I see It suffocating, masked with prints from sweating fingers;
I, in safe solitary contentment, sip whiskey in the depths of the Barcalounger.
Debris cartwheels round the remains of It, a cosmic carousel of splinters,
of covert cold war creations and the last of the American dream.
DJ Kessler’s desolate shriek is on repeat through the toxic fog.
With fading memories vacuum packed into photographs
scattered around, I sit in slippers and dressing gown.
Today is my birthday, and It is going to die
with us final few flung deservedly off
across the distant candle light stars
and I’m blowing them out
I’m making a wish
as we drift off into
the wasteland of