Tuesday

The end of the world falls
in silver shining dots on gray ground.
The sky has sunlight in it somewhere
over there, but here the shadows cup
a low roof above our heads. Silence.
A plastic bag drifts down. Lightning
rips across a row of fluorescent bulbs.
A golf cart aglow, a radio tower’s bones
stroking the sky-roof. The shadows roar
and the end of the world falls
in shimmering silver explosions
holding on to running heel prints and the smell
of Streptomyces.