"Friends."
This morning I got up looking for my friends.
Last year or last night, no remark was wasted.
We drank everything, danced with one another's wives,
pretended to be sullen or drunk.
While in the dark kitchen, fat John
braced his feet, leaned forward hard against the singing
refrigerator.
But now my house is empty.
Stale ashes and sunlight on the rug are no breakfast.
I need leaves, air, and a clean brain.
And a trampled weed field, I find two shoes empty
and smelling only of leather and tracks going away.