listened to Leonard Cohen on NPR,
graveled voice and deep dharma,
craved a smoke, the sinister drag
and exhale, the reminder that death
is held between my fingers,
flicked ash of so many days gone
and now Tom Waits' whiskey
depth and growl, asynchronous beats,
the circus embodied, and I want a shot
or two, or three, the cool liquid
down my throat and the warm flush,
the numbing, a tear in my eye
so many indulgences of youth given
up to walk the talk, to live clean:
a chocolate Jesus, everybody knows
and I do, too, sitting here
watching the wind in the paloverde,
content to grow older each moment
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