BURNING ONE

by Mather Schneider

With hands mottled and fingers trembling I
take the joint from
Viking Mike who
says:

“There’s just nothing
to fucking do around here
anymore.”

Sammy the Apache
and I agree
as the three of us pass the joint
dumb with our old clothes
and puffed cheeks
in the sunset parking lot outside
the Buffet Tavern.

The joint is finally microscopic
and Sammy pops it in his mouth
and we stand there looking at each other’s
feet.

There is nothing left
but a one room apartment
with paths worn in the carpet

or a flattened out place
in the grass on the edge
of the city

or walking
all night
in the cold desert
air.