Between the End of the Earth and the Water

I stand, coming up the lift, barely able to make it to the fourth after an hour's long travel, one way and then the other. I miss the steering wheel, I miss the planets. Two years ago, the old man paid for everything but the gas and his card took care of that. I would live there on the fabric seats, sun shade down to catch my eyes, listening to music 'til it died and I got stuck with all-talking voices. I could see the rain heading towards my slant, red clouds go to purple, and I'd curse all that made me leave the seat. I would stare down at my precious work on the page and say to myself, "It will get better," as the large drops hit, always hit first, and the sun sat still far on the Texas horizon. There are no more clouds here at the top of World's End, where royalty used to see sunsets and say, "This is what I call the end of the world." Though the rest of it saw it differently, we stood still and nodded our heads, bowed them with glee to be told that we don't live in the same world as the king. Just to be addressed was a privilage. No such privilage anymore cos the queen hits high up in her palace and the prince's frolic in princess garb or SS lieutenant's gear. Who could blame them? They never had to smell the blood in the dirt, in the dust from the wind blowing it into our catching mouths. We feel it here up against our tongues and caught below our collar. Who am I talking about? Only me, cos when I get upstairs we will smile and nod, if they look up from what they are doing. The bread is stale the chicken is dry. And unhappy houseold stands as long as its pillars want to. They have to break speak love to stop the bricks from swallowing us whole.