A Thanksgiving

I hitch-hiked a mile, all uphill,
one Thanksgiving Eve. I couldn't see
the cracks in the sidewalk, the branches
of the trees, a twenty from a dollar bill,
but I was going in the right direction.
All that alcohol is like a bucket of paint
on a finished canvas--that is, to memory--
but I wrote out song lyrics on a plastic cup,
spilling like a child; lit the wrong end
of a cigarette, and coughed the cotton smoke
up like vomit; picked a girl, tried to pretend
I'd loved her in whispers; then started to walk
against the wind and gravity, until my lungs broke,
and my body shivered sad songs. I thumbed it,
cliche I was, and he stopped and let me in.
It was a pickup. He wore glasses,
and was prematurely balding. I talked
and talked in glossolalia. He stopped,
I said good night in English. It was a non-event,
really, save for the next morning, my stomach
empty like a popped balloon, burning
like a dying fireplace. My arms were weights,
my legs were dried-out twigs. And my conscience
ground my face into my pillow.