Gone Poem by Roger Gerald Hicks

The house plants are brown sticks.
Daddy-longlegs barricade the doorways
with multiple, invisible strands.
Dust obscures the coffee table-
graces all
but today's un-opened mail.

The phone (disconnected)never rings.
He doesn't even know.

At noon, shoeless, in soiled shorts,
he shakes a gallon of juice,
piles in the sink more dishes.

He swigs gin while the T.V. flickers-
'till the channels all are test patterns.

On the way to bed, long, encrusted nails
rake cobwebs from his beard.

He plops on the pot, pees, stares
at black, curly hair-strands
matted on the tile floor.

He brushes the vomit stained sheet
once and falls on the waterbed.

As the room whirls, his last thoughts:
What day is it?
Should he have one more cigarette?
What month is it?

He feels around for the soft nylon panty,
finds it,
crumples it,
clutches it to his face,

begins to wail

like a steel-snared wolf-
like a man on a mine.