The Very Last Thing

The Very Last Thing

Nearly
Half a day
Late,
And still
The wheels
Whine,

Collecting
Miles
On the street
On the way
To that awkward
Destination.

What plans
Now fade,
What hours
Now subside,
What consequence
Becomes
Now silence?

Arriving
So late
That the moon
Has left
Its shadow
In softness,

Now
The gravel
Driveway
Holds
Untouched
The grooves
Of its tread marks,

And that dark
Rapping
Chatter
Finds
A single light,

Alone
And nearly
Vibrant,
Tired
And welcome
For touch
And eventual
Slumber.