Old rotting outside walls, And behind it all, the fields. Too many afternoons, in Cigarette fogs, on old carpet. Some lost days, some mornings Alone, I could be mistaken For that crumbling structure, aging, While inside memories shelter, each Of us still sturdy and persisting, As the clock and weather usher Our continued march, toward the final Pinfall, pencil, scoresheet. © SXT 2022

Away messages and e-mail Were just a distraction. We rode in old cars, With no destination, too Fast and sometimes, too Slow. I reach back on Purpose and feel the Plush 1980s upholstery, In a station wagon of No particular make, wide awake with A small fire burning between My knuckles, and a shit-eating Grin — everything and nothing, Was welcome sin © SXT 2022

Chaos reigns, On every field. There is no greater plan, No credible conclusions known- Today the sky is blue, Tomorrow red. You take the week off, To relax, unwind And die instead. Coat, umbrella, it’s all the Same, here We’re all soaking, in Chaos rains © SXT 2022

Old station wagon, once tan now Dying in the driveway, Color lighter from bleaching sun No driver, no motor running and two Decades gone, no plan for use, none to Fix, days and clocks spin by, no Change but seasonal decays: wind Snow, rain and hail, never A change to the tail, just The burn and A return © SXT 2022

Long low whistle Train far away, Windows cracked, overcast Thunderstorm days. Birds chirp faster, In the sunshine, wet Old here, crumbling and Reasons to fret, but Hanging on in the change Each day gives away, and They aren’t dead yet. They aren’t dead yet. © SXT 2022

They say it’s weird, quite strange Each day to think on that you’ll die And ponder if it was today, what You would change about the hours So you’d be remembered well, Gone on to heaven, or to hell Or other places, other graces, Far from all familiar faces. Would a stronger kindness swell, Knowing toning was your knell? SXT 2022

We burned out a felled tree, Joey, Matt and myself, and Made an ashtray in the hollow. It was deep in the brush, where Leaves obscured those truant moments: Thieves with stolen cigarettes Lit by stolen fire and inhaled deep. And Sometimes still, when I fall asleep And memories flood the gap between I smell forest and Kents, or The rank pungent scent, of Dad’s True-blue 100s. © SXT 2022

Sometimes it was nothing Save stress on the way, a cigar And those long rides alone. Two, three hours one way Each eight hour day, Though sometimes for my lunch I would roam, and Steal back some time, then lie on the sheets- It’s quite sweet, dopamine on the loan. Still I never found peace, on highways and streets Unless they were pointing me home. It always felt good coming home. © SXT 2022

This is not the time There was a moment I was working, toward something Just a few short months ago, but No, this is not the time. Perhaps tomorrow I will persevere, I will build new thoughts and My breathing in and out will Make allowances for great light, but For now a little further behind, A little less bright © SXT 2022