what's at the end

no one has the front door view
he does and when no one is
around he might stare at
the pictures kept in his mind

it's too late to make another
pot of coffee and the arm is
beginning to cramp slightly it's
probably because of the chill tonight

so far from home he must
miss it all and little ones
still too young to know
any difference at all

he's not paranoid he lives
in the middle of nowhere
someone has got to go a long way
out of the way to find

what's at the end there
a neighbor or passing by listener
nothing better to do late on Thursday
what's that

no way to stop what is
destined to arrive someday
the pages might turn a little
faster and no one will have any cash

silence isn't actually here
at the moment (electric heater
battles the chill) you wouldn't be
either if you had the chance
—you do

half picture half drawing
artistic leave behinds treasures
to the pen pushing mad man
behind fifteen blinds

it might be completely fabricated
like the lines extending right
off the page like the porch
he sits within these pine walls

he writes and someone in China
could read it tomorrow
it is just how the world works
these days unlike any other
—what's at the end...