I saw a dying pickup, being
driven by a desperate man,
smoking and jerking down the highway.

I saw a flight of white birds
cross the sky above my windshield,
heading west, at sunrise.
I thought: These are my friends.
These birds are leaving me.

And I?  I myself was anonymous.
I checked into a fleabag room
under an assumed name,
paid in cash, made up
the plate number on the spot.

I ate almost nothing.
I got stoned 
on the southbound drive,
just like the old days,
winding my way down
the Merritt Parkway,
crawling like a bug on a map.

I went to a concert
and sat in the back
in a town where nobody
knows my name.

I smoked a lot of cigarettes.
I sat on the edge of
that ugly bed,
nursing my Camels,
sifting my thoughts,
remembering the birds,
watching the failing pillar
shrink between my fingers, thinking:

This is my life: 
growing shorter 
as I watch.
These are my friends: 
fading, winking out, 
dropping, being 
brushed away
like ashes.

When the first light of Monday
intruded through a flaw 
in the curtains
I was sitting on the bed,
partially hidden
in smoke,
letting my thoughts
drift through 
parted fingers,
thinking: 
This glow, 
these embers,
are all the fire
I have left.

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