Obsequies

Now that it's done and dim, let's
smoke cigarettes and paint
my floors blue. Fire the lawyers,
hire a small plot of happy.  

Throw back the curtains
in the drive-up motel. Cracked
vinyl and an empty parking lot
and wonder how to leave next.  

O to be the desert. All sand and sweat,
stars crumbling and stumbling
from one room to another.
The past never slept. Fire the chef.  

Hire some consent. Turn out
the lights and wipe down the walls.
Take in that certain charm
of the ebbing and pocket what's left.  

Don't hold tight. Fire the trucks.
Once again we're left to empty
the ashtrays. Strays and the late,
now we see how this ends.