so the world is ending
it is smudged across another stale pink palm.
have you, too, lost count of how many
years the white man has been dying?
are you, too, hoping that this
is his final Last Stand?
meanwhile, we sit in the wings of the world
stutter the script back and forth between us,
and confuse our cues. wonder if we are in
the right production hall.
meanwhile, I sneak back into dressing rooms,
finish off the brown gravel biscuits
gulp tepid instant coffee and stuff my bag
with sugar sachets.
maybe there are two kinds of people
who are doomed to repeat history:
those who don’t learn it.
those who rote learn it.