you look like hell

man, woman, and machine

it's tuesday evening and i'm
sitting outside
the only local corporate
bastard of a coffee shop
still alive in this forgotten,
ruined
small town
i call home,
smoking
cigarettes i lit with a
match
because the lighter fluid
is gone
like hemingway (to my left)
is gone.

there is a middle aged
man and a
middle aged woman near
me, at another table.
the man is a motorcyclist
and his beautiful
machine is
three feet to my
right.

he is showing the woman
pictures of his adventures
all over the heres and theres
of God's green earth
and this blessed patch
of land called
the midwest, a place
that has God on its
side
according to the man
with the
raspy
          voice.

this man and woman,
i think they are on something
of a rendesvous or perhaps
a date even.
and i think they are
late,

(smoke in my eyes burns.)

late in life.
ring fingers are naked and
eyes bear a hint more
eye shadow than a
casual night out warrants.

conversation is of
the machines and seems
to be common ground.
and they are late,
they are late and alone
in this gauntlet of a life
we are all given.

(eyes water a bit.)

and they are looking
i
think.
i
think
that they are looking.

(blink, and blink again)

the sun retreats to the
treeline and perhaps
these two have begun
to find what
they are looking
for.
and i hope they find it
soon, i truly do;
for soon and swiftly they
will be gone
like the smoke
that i breathe.

and now they leave
on the machine.
i wish them well
and pray for their
safety.

the smoke that they are i
hope does not blow
away with the wind
tonight.