The Last Remaing Warmth

steam curls over the lip

of the bright red mug,

and dissipates

into the cool thin air.

the hand that wraps

around the red clay

is chapped and

shaking. long, thin fingers tap

the sides in an agitated

melody and a sad drawn out sigh

escapes from a mouth where a cigarette

hangs. the clock reads 5:35; he

should have left by now.

a motor hums down the dark,

lonely highway behind the house.

the finger tapping quickens:

that truck won’t drive itself.

those bills won’t pay themselves.

that gun won’t load itself.

just one more minute; then he’ll go.