the air felt stale
like in a tomb
sealed
for thousands of years
yet open
to the weak light
of a dying sun
about to go
supernova
and consume
the entire solar system

the ground
had long since dried
the fleeting remnants
of flora
as dessicated
as the smile
on an old whore’s face
after years of service
in the cold back alleys
of the unforgiving
city

he sits on the bench
feeling the grit
in the air
across leathery cheeks
remembering
when it all seemed
vibrant
with a pained expression
of one who witnessed
hope die
on the winds
of yesterday