I Need to Write, but...

There are only three cigarettes left in my pack.
Not nearly enough to write
like Charles;
an overflowing ashtray next
to the almost
empty bottle of bourbon.
Not nearly enough to write
about the death of a friend
or love,
or family,
or a rose that bloomed
just outside of a windowthat I never got to see flower.
Two cigarettes, now.
I couldn’t possibly eulogize
Senator Kennedy,
or apologize for doing so,
considering the ongoing
consensus of human good
vs. the evil actions of men.
I haven’t enough
fortitude to quit
smoking the damn things,
or stop having sex,
or fight with my children
about bad choices,
or with myself
about my own.
So, I’ve taken my night meds,
Michael,
without the money to make it last.
Pain has wings all of it’s own,
without smoke screens to cover
the space we all must fly.
Dreams are all we have,
sometimes,
to get us through the nightwith one more for the mourning...