To The Last

 

I have just lit my last cigarette.

A last mouthful of cold coffee sits in the cup.

It is snowing ice.

Grey dust seeps through my cracked windows.

I have two choices for dinner: cheap vodka or nothing.

…….

My love a light swan

flew south with my last

stale bread crusts in her beautiful beak

(I haven’t written a poem in a week).

……..

The bed next door creaks a last

sad song of neighborly passion

(Love is so unequally rationed.)

……….

Trains rumble by outside to

imaginary Auschwitzes,

shaking me out of dreams

(I hear the crosses scream).

…………

The church across the street

fills this Sunday

with hunched over creatures

tired from the morning’s marketing

(the sky is slowly darkening).

………….

Alone, even death refuses

to greet me, to come down

from the hills where it

waits among the well spaced pines.

…………..

Empty at last, I wait.

One thing is sure — the show goes on.

My responsibility?

To last, to get the work done.

………..

I put out my cigarette and pick up my last dry pen.

Now, it is time to think.

Poetry hidden, is what lasts  — life insurance.

All genius genetic, a question of endurance.