The Need for Smoke

Where there’s a dire need for smoke, there’s fire.

When there’s a wish for death, a dream comes true.

What dreams may come, perchance sleepers expire,

to sleep, to burn, to bleed, at least I knew.

I don’t wish on my lucky stars to fly

to magic kingdoms, glades of nevermore.

I save my shooters for the rendered sky,

the salted earth, the stumble to the door.

I live here in this ditch, and God does, too.

At least, She visits, every time it rains.

We share a drink. She asks, but nothing’s new.

The same old Earth; the same old growing pains.

She comes because I’m lonesome, for a spell.

She’s lonesome, too, but I can never tell.