Busking at the End of the World

Busking at the End of the World


It's hard busking at the end of the world. Electric power comes and goes. Sometimes it's hard to sing in the heavy, hot air. No one remembers the words, anyway. Survival skills eat up brain cells. There is no money. People leave what they can: a tin of Spam, a bottle of water, a baggie of pills, a half bottle of Jack. That's a good day. We don't see junkies and addicts on the street much anymore, and not many kids. I guess they all went first. The homeless have taken over all the cars just left in the streets. I used to moan that I didn't ever have enough time to sing. Here at the apogalacteum, time is all I have. The world is folding its petals, curling its leaves, shrinking like a daisy's yellow heart. I keep singing Woody's "This Land is Your Land". What went wrong? Does golden hope still dwell deep underground? This isn't over yet.