by tom miller
end of the year
i
haven’t written much lately
but there is still drinking
smoking cigarettes and
marijuana
all the poet’s vices
and idea makers and shakers
with the split pea soup
on the pot
and fingers on the run
pecking out more of a
ramble than a poem
this poet enjoys the gold
in cuervo especial
and me in only a towel
my neck cracks
like a machine gun
the blinds are closed
the light is out
heading into next year
right after christmas
1999
seems like a song i heard yesterday