Thanksgiving Daypoem

I planted
my garden
on infertile soil.
This year,
there will be
no harvest.
My withered
crops bear
no fruit.
I turn them
back into the earth
with my
cracked, dry hands.
I sit,
surrounded by
solemnity.
Next year,
I'll eat well
on Thanksgiving day.

This October, it's Wool.

Wake me
from transient dreams
of faraway places
and faces
of infinite familiarity
that remain
unnameable.
We'll feel
the otherness
of words spoken
in the distance,
never more
than faceless.
We'll dance alone
in great halls
until neither
of us can stand
on our own legs.
This October,
I wrap myself
in wool.

Without

Nicotine
can make my heart
beat fast tonight,
as I lie alone,
without you
by my side.
I'm left waiting
for cold Monday morning,
and colder
Monday afternoon.
Smoke curls
from my pipe.
The tobacco burns
with the framework
of my calm
collectedness.
This wool jacket
no longer
keeps me warm.

Wednesday's Sidewalks

I slept in
this morning.
Eleven o'clock.
Bright red
soda can tabs,
empty bottles
on my dresser.
I lose control again.
Vases sit
on floors
and shelves.
Dying flowers
drooping
in the smoke-filled
rooms
of smoke-filled
minds.
Close to
the exit door,
I make a left
turn, and walk
on Wednesday's
sidewalks.