Peach Cigars And Miniature Cars

Back into the driveway,
and notice the roots of my life.
I am, at an early hour,
up, having been writing for hours,
and looking pale.
I light up a Swisher Cigar
and smell the peaches.
He, lying starkly motionless on the bed,
half-naked,
in the other room, is snoring.
Maybe the TV set wil roll forever.
The Sahara Desert Company featured
a B movie,
and I watched it, passing off politics,
its brain in the toilet hole.

Win the day.
Make the sky fall, the earth turn,
the dinner worthwhile--that is what
I ask of him.
If only it were years ago,
when his feet didn't swell from
the pain of a Hematoma Operation
and we could walk hand in hand in the Park
together.

He dreams of those miniature cars,
all of them in a row, just like his father.
We buried his father with a military salute
for being in the Army some two months ago
and he loved those damn cars enough
to pack the ones he saved all up in the end. All
he tells me now is that he would like to keep
those cars and hell, things will
look good again.

I must have seen a half-moon
that carries the ocean, look as though
it would sigh for him. Me, thirsty
in its light.