at the end of a day

 
the days end flares like the  
expression on a dog's face
trapped on the highway  
knowing the jig is up as an  
eighteen wheeler approaches  
 
as I settle in for the evening,
nothing more than a mole in a
burrow  
 
laying here smoking
these worn down old  
bones into oblivion  
 
I think about writers I
have loved:
 
Fante
Hemingway  
Carroll  
Sexton  
Kerouac  
 
I wonder where they
have gone
 
and what they are doing
right now