Not If The World Was Ending. Poem by Tara Schley

As I rode through the streets,
the buildings fell dark. The bridges,
streets, freeways became clogged with vehicles.
Impassable except to foot or bike traffic.

The forests burned into the houses on the
edge of the city. The gated neighbourhood,
where we once said that if we won the lottery
we'd buy the largest poshest home, left to burn.

Children and dogs in the streets howled.
Their guardians gesturing, talking,
looking up at the sky, either not noticing
or not bothering to tell them to be quiet.

The shops thoroughly looted, mostly empty,
still had some thieving stragglers
walking out with televisions, computers and
smart phones they would never be able to use.

I rode past Main Street with the night clubs
no longer contained just to their buildings
but into the street with music thumping
from generator run music equipment.

The people gathered in the street: laughing, dancing, crying.
"FREE" a sign read, placed beside kegs of beer and crates of wine.
Somewhere gunshots rang out, momentarily causing
us all to pause and look in the directed they came from.

As I made my way through the crowd,
a young teenage girl handed me a beer,
she announced to me with a sarcastic melancholy,
"This is my first night drinking…woo hoo.."

I turned onto your street. Relief, to see you backlit by
candle light, standing at your front window, our scared sad eyes met.
I thought I saw you smile before you slowly closed the curtains.
I softly knocked on your door.

1,2

3,4

5,6

7,8 times.

I sat down on your steps, hoping, waiting, staring into the night sky.
I slowly drank the beer that girl gave me.
Then, I got back on my bike
and rode away.

Tara Schley.