Poised on edge of plastic chair
scoping winterscape in
rain filled graywashed scene.

Seen through aluminum
and green plastic verticals
while drips, drip on.

Must be fifty degrees.
Must be nearing the
end of everything.

The patio is where the patients come
to sit and smoke cigarettes
and chat.
Some cry
because they hurt so bad
they can no longer pretend
not to.

THIS IS WHERE WE HAVE GATHERED

UNDER THE GRAY WET WINTER.

To mourn the loss of expectation,
of our grasp on the impermanent.

Spiritual pilgrims in the cold church
of those who love life
no longer.

I hear highway traffic and airplanes.
I see dead trees
and dying dreams.

THIS IS WHERE WE HAVE GATHERED.

Must be nearing the end
of everything.