There’s no doomsday clock quite like those 
little, yellow lights that stutter off as the
end approaches, like the hazy red star
beyond Venus and the white pine’s branches.

The man in the hood and glasses looks past
the metal ceiling, with knotted earbuds
tying him to the floor like the other man 
still holding me to this metal testament.

It’s 11:58 and 30 seconds to Dekalb.
A war of drunken indifference with
King Solomon awaits me, I hope
he’ll still take me home tonight.