SUNSET

That day was like all the others; sisters were teased
by their brothers. The postman's delivery pleased.
Old maids peeked out windows.  Crows squawked.
Traffic goes too slow.  The young walk.  The old talk.

Gus climbed three flights of rickety stairs to his room.
Inside the air was stale, light dim, the floor in need of a broom.
Nicotine-stained fingers meted instant coffee into a cup.
While the water heated, Gus rolled a joint and lit it up.

That night storms rolled in disrupting phone reception.
Electric power was on and off.  There was no exception.
The next day things were better, and routines were resumed.
It was several days later when Gus was exhumed.

He sat with elbows on his table, unable to shout.
Coffee had spilled, the joint had fallen and gone out.
Facing a blank wall in the hall, Gus did not seem upset.
He quietly embraced his last roundup and eternal sunset.