Sitting beneath the trestle bundled against November. the illegal pipe glows beneath winter quelled stars and the Kootenai River rakes the questions downstream.
“When is a home no longer a home?” “who the fuck knows?”
Take another hit of depression, breathe deep, feel the lungs recoil from the smoke.
A traffic jam of Canadian geese air rage honk on southward skyways. Glacial winds scratch the cheeks with snow spattered fingernails.
Take another hit of depression, inhale the ashes of pain chiseled into the double helix.
Depression is a boulder crushing the spinal column, the skull, the ribs like the metallic growl of the wheels above once crushed the face of a trapped penny as they dragged their cargo across.