His Last Poems (Poetry)

He wrote up until the end —
nothing else to do
except mark time
and observe
one black, one brown
one yellow bird
through the glass
of an east-facing window

note the significance
of small
so-ordinary things —
the sequence of
lights blinking
on and off
the surging song
of homeward traffic
the gritty dusk
layering in

the stores closed
sidewalk litter
moved on
by an edgy wind
old men shuffle
down dark alleys
searching for a
quiet doorway
grey and full
of sleep...

words mourn
the cheap, loud
downtown bars
the girls, the booze
the ugly face fierce
and wild with
living

the fights, the love
and afterwards
the cliché price
the long drug-dull road
of pain —
stick-boned
and pen slow
and stuttering

his last poems
shaking free and
restless as
tumbleweed
to be
gone.