Night Never Ends

Night never ends here -
the thin blue line
a stranger packs in his bags
before losing his mind;
the scratch behind our eyes
that keeps us moving
down the highway.

It is a jail cell at three a.m.,
the warden playing cards,
whiskey wetting his dreams
where a spark lays waste
to a family left behind;
the backlight of a slum,
a thousand rooms of winter
and water leaking in a lightbulb
over your head.

It is midnight in a foxhole,
the strafe of friendly fire
like a flashlight to beat
the weary-wounded
into watching for a sign;
the last drink festering on formica
six inches of crushed tafetta
wearing out its welcome
on a barstool called home.

It is dawn in the mortuary
last night's pickings
carved up for christmas
special delivery to no one
who will care;
and the silent mourning bedlam
left thinking on the drainboard
carted out for the trashmen
to haul away
and sell.