Drinking About Death

Thanksgiving Day 2018

This drinking about death,
Waking up confused and cold,
Throwing a log on fading coals.
Then, the sickness in the morning,
Aching down in my bones,
Skull full of stones.
Think maybe breakfast,
Eggs, sausage and potatoes
Might help, but who knows?

A riot of sounds outside:
Snows blasted from trees by the winds,
Skeletons shaking off their skins.
And a sun out of Greek Tragedy,
Cruel shadowless presence,
Making me long for innocence,
For afternoons when
I was given a key but no lock,
Encouraged to fix a broken clock.

I  get lost inside my memories,
Suddenly growing tired,
Listening to the lullaby of the fire.
A walk perhaps would do me good.
Thirteen degrees - how bad can it be?
I stand next to the stove, soaking up the heat.
Outside, the cold hammers into me:
Brutal, breaking, unforgiving.
Instantly, I have no doubt:

I want to go on living.