Behind the long dirt drive
hide sagging windows
and heavy curtains. In the only
lit room in the house a man
warms himself by the fireplace
and realizes that he has never
been more alone than he is.
An old photograph framed
in cherry hangs desperately
to the yellowed wallpaper,
while winter smoke rises
against chimney brick and then
sky and then, where does it go
from there? The man thinks it’s
where we all go, but I think
he’s the worst kind of fool.
I think the darkened rooms around
him simply weigh the earth down
with their uselessness. I think
it’s honorable to die when
we’re supposed to. Let the
cowards wish for eternal life.