ALL SPENT.

A BOY AND GIRL IN TRAFALGAR SQUARE IN 1967 AND DRUGS AND GOD AND ABSURDITY

Do you believe that?

Nima lights up
a cigarette
after the question.

It's a matter of faith
not scientific fact.

She smiles.

Even faith
needs some basis
on the possible,
I mean
a virgin birth?
you believe that?

Benedict looks at her
sitting there
by the fountain
in Trafalgar Square.

With God
all things
are possible.

Virgin birth
is possible?
you think that?

He looks
at the jawline,
the cheeks pale,
two fingers holding
the cigarette.

Sure, I do,
like other
articles of faith.

She shakes her head,
stares at him.

Nietzsche said
some place
that God's only excuse
is he doesn't exist.

Without God
there is no purpose
in anything,
he says;
it's all pointless,
absurd.

She sighs.

Maybe that is
the reality,
this absurdity,
but it doesn't mean
therefore
God must exist,
she adds,
looking out
at the people
in the Square,
by the fountains.

Without God
there is no beginning,
no beginning
therefore no end,
just endless turmoil,
he says,
looking at needle marks
on her skin
where the juice
ran in.

Let's go
for a beer and burger,
she says,
then I must get back
to the hospital
before they go
over the top.

He nods and they walk
through the Square,
pass the fountains,
and people,
and she flicks
her cigarette butt
as she went;
like her,
like her life
all spent.