The shop was closed, so what might have been
That day was cut short, but you lay down
In the clean snow outside and moved your arms.

And you got up, and realising yourself
Looked at, looked for a moment so beautiful,
The angel in the snow covered her eyes.

Then you laughed, and turned, and ran
The short way home, to shake off the cold
In the busy warmth of your mother's kitchen.

And you grew up, and bought that bloody car,
And spun it off the road two winters later,
And died beside the wreck, lying in the snow.

They come out of the shop, their collars up
To keep out the cold, and they spit, and drop
Garbage in the slush, where once an angel played.

I met a strange man who claimed to be a time traveller from the future, researching the collapse of human civilisation.
He asked me where it all went wrong.
I said, the Americans thought they could sell Sesame Street to the Russians.
He said, I know what Sesame Street is, but what are Americans and Russians?
I explained as well as I could, and he nodded sadly, and went on his way, apparently satisfied with the explanation.