more than cheers

to tire you with this:   once more down to the last
drink
of a good night of writing four poems.
please understand that it’s not for fame but more
it’s just a little test
of staying alive until the last bloody
tick.

otherwise, brushing your teeth is no good or
putting on your shoes or watching your wife shaking a
bedcover out the window at eleven a.m. as
on a chair
a small black cat looks at you
with eyes so yellow and deep that
a chill takes you and it isn’t
fear.

four poems can spill over, run along your arms, mend
impossibilities, get the Buddha
laughing,
four poems can shake the ketchup, humanize the
madman and the killer.

I now take this last drink in honor of
your walls and
mine.