Lost

Again, here am I
In this torrid clime.
In my pocket
Half a stick of Juicy Fruit,
Sweet though dried-up.
A gust of sand
Spins up the railroad track:
It is the end, again.

I find a cigarette
But have no match.
Looking about
Everything shimmers.
The only thing wrong with death
Is that is holds no desire.

poem by Stan Petrovich
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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