a toast to the apocalypse

by John Lorence

a toast to sunlight’s smidgen
of disclosure.

to the magnificent bath of dark clouds
being drawn in the west end.

to the apocalypse hour,
when Longfellow’s statue
ponders his monsters
as they sit hunched on benches,
like sleeping pigeons.

to this rented moment for its scent
of something almost permanently kept,
as clandestine drinks are bent
across the street,
sinister barkeeps sent
pouring the ink of medicinal bitters.