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To Rich Furman's previous piece

Final curtain

She stands on the corner
with a pigeon pressed
tightly to her lips,
kissing noisily into 
contorted terrified feathers,
eyes well redden and glaze
from her hardening grip.
An old mans tells you
that God is a '63 Dodge
as he promenades in the square,
a dazed and frightened hamster.
Another chants:
chocolate chocolate
staggering drunk confused mantra
in the streets to the confused 
vacuity of human kindness.
You look at the sky,
find no full moon as explanation,
no barking dog warning of the end,
no message or meaning
in the random array of clouds
forming overhead in patterns
that you cannot explain either,
just a sinking emptiness that
blankets what is 
and can be known.

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