a poem by M.P. Powers

omari got there first
he heard the engine running in the garage: an old
generator with an orange
cord plugged in

he followed it down the hallway and all the way
to the back bathroom

where a small tv was propped
upon the toilet: good morning america

and an old man dead on the floor
in a dingy overcoat
half open, white spittle
on the corners

that was two years ago
and i still haven't figured out whether
you intended to kill yourself

either way
i guess it doesn't matter: it's over and no one
seems to care

but sometimes i still do think about
huddled in the bathroom that night
struggling to keep warm

as christmas approached, another one, and alone again
another impossibility to add to all the others
not bothering
to open the windows
or doors
but waiting
in the bathroom
while the bitter fumes crept silently
across the air.