Morning heat is drying out the ragged
bits of snail trails on my front stoop. The gin
at last kicks in. I was throwing up blood
last night, leaving me cold and dank, my skin
waxy. I love how silver fades away
in heat. I sit on my stoop, run a thumb
over the trail. Lick it clean. An old stray
curls at my feet; her purring a rhythm,
one that I follow. My neighbor calls out,
heading for work. This is how everything
should end. I’m lost in the Skatalites, Toots
and the Maytals, Madness. We all burnout.
We all fade. Snail trails. A stray cat purring.
Some of us are stars; some only tributes.