What good is poetry if you save it for an uncertain future?  Written at 2:30 this morning after my neighbor woke me to get his spare door key.  cleaned up a bit just now

late nights
listening to trucks rattling their way
to the refinery or sugar plant down in the parish
I am comforted by what we had and saddened by what has come to be

I want to cut and run
with your photo tucked into the back pages of my passport,
striking out for parts unknown, scribbling in a book to share with no one