A ripe gift
				on a dark blue
						plate, strong coffee.
		early morning
			of this final day--
				sharp sun
	rakes your glazed
		and frozen valley
			as this time

				comes to its end.

To close it out

	you will do nothing
			beyond the ordinary:

	scratch words on paper,
				recorder pixels,

vacuum shed skin
			from your flannel sheets,

	pay bills, await

		some help to fix
				your broken house.

As twilight steps on stage

		you will bathe
			and shave, anoint yourself

then wander out
		to share with others
				whatever happens next.

A night like this,
the very last,

a lucky man
		might get lucky:

					drink mouthfuls
			of hot spiced wine,

		become or meet
			the dark invader,
		surrender to another,

	empty out, deflate, then
float off into dreams,

to wake up at sunrise
			risen like fresh bread

	in a warm
		and hungry mouth,

with tomorrow here as
		just another Monday
when the world
							begins again.

Allan Douglas Coleman