THE SAND HILL REVIEW http://www.sandhillreview.org 2003
This must
be Death
3:00AM dark.
No air for the
smoke
of the last
pack
Camels,
whatever
beyond all
brand names, now.
First shot of the
night
with a
lingering hint of Isle moss
has slid down
to the tenth
beer
the color of
sick-horse-piss
and just as
warm.
It’s deep snow
on satellite
channel 87
TV’s twisted
entertainment—
Clowns
flipping flaming poodles—
Blond, Aussi,
alligator wrestlers—
True Crime
detectives on the trail
of mayhem,
murder and missing
body parts—
Reruns—Sopranos,
6 Feet Under,
MASH and ER
on 500
channels. Death
is not here.
Thumb just
above reflex,
rhythmic,
tubular—with
luck, Soccer
last week’s
game,
again and its
still
a few beers,
a day old
cheesecake
and 3 hours
before
we have to go,
back,
again, to get
paid—
through
another night
numbing
towards dawn
and the
footsteps
of what is
coming.