End of the World

Many here
crowded in collapsed rooms.

Mind cells.

My hair stringy and wet for the moment
before sighing.

Too many times.

I am too young to feel this old.
My name hidden between my eyes.

The young men gone.

That one loved me.
That one didn't.

All became soldiers.

Digging graves underneath buckled sidewalks.
An old man keeps me warm.

That is all he can do. I don't want anymore...

Anita McQueen runs the streets at night, feeling the wind against her face, and long shadows on her back. Her poetry has recently appeared in A Handful Of Stones, The Camel Saloon, Catapult To Mars, Deuce Coupe, The Literary Burlesque, Mad Swirl, and Raven Images. Her blog is sweetstreetmcqueen.blogspot.com/

Find more by Anita McQueen in the Author Index.

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