passage

Take your pills
And smoke another cigarette,
Sip from the glass marked by your fingertips
And let the spirits slip down your throat
Until they churn and erupt inside your stomach.

The sun is gone
And the cold moon is shrouded by shifting clouds,
You stare at the clock
Hanging on the naked wall,
The tick
The tick
The ticking of seconds sail from your room
And vanish into the night

That treacherous night
Where street lamps burn for no one
And snow slides out of the sky
And the footprints of strangers silently speak to the vacant streets:
"I was here
I occupied this space for a fleeting moment
And then I slipped away . . .
Somewhere."

Like time.

The past is a digression
An incidental remark that etches itself inside . . .
Somewhere.

The past is a stained reflection in the mirror
Its permanence, startling
Staring
Unmoving.

The past progresses
Relentlessly burying the casualties of withered seasons
And these are the artifacts of the absent:
A tombstone
A phone message
Restroom graffiti
The lover's letter
A forgotten photograph.

Take your pills
And smoke your cigarettes,
The future is the last bus departing the depot
Slipping into that unstoppable night
Taking you . . .
Somewhere.

xx