First Mobil

We are North Americans, aren't we?
Sharp tea and heavy weeks this season
And a manuscript
About nothing
Moving toward nothing
Nothing doing
Spinning plates on nineteen poles
Hours a day, day into night
For nothing.
I sank heavy into the armchair and smoked
The last day's first cigarette
Almost empty
Used up
Worn down
Holier than the pockets of my leather jacket.

So closed, no matter how open
Paralyzed
Only hand, arm, and lips still working
My cords hung low in my throat
Unplugged
Twisted in the wind again
Once again
Dumped into the sound again
Once again.

The air heats up day by day
And cools
Night by night
And in so many days
And in so many nights
I'll be a driftwood log
Awash on the other shore
Sure, just for a summer
May be
July will come
August will pass
And in September
We'll be either
Singing or crying