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1.

Bright aspirin pang of powder in the nose,
Froth ice of cheap beer choked down too fast,

A quick sock to the gut, bolt of light to the brain,
Shapeless hours in a prehistoric steel town where

Hours splash like slush. He knew the clinging burr
Of loss that pulls at once on each small gain,

Nights stretched till each wiped itself clean as it passed.
But the songs thumped on, while some friends rose,

And some went away, others died. Some stopped
Long enough to make more mistakes. Some grew up.

2.

Some lied to get away from their own friends,
And he always said that so much of it depends . . .

One day, the last host will slam the last door,
The last smoked ash will settle on the floor,

And he’ll look up, and stop, or maybe toast
Himself, with the slow, confused motions of a ghost.