The Abacus of Motors

He lived until the next time,
the first sip replete
with fresh froth on his upper lip,
until the next and the next
pushed each back
a little further in his mind,
until deadened,
his mind fell behind him
like car smoke
wriggling toward the curb.

The hours toward five
made him nervous:
power for the TV and the radio,
the refrigerator and the bathroom light.
He counted backward
by smudged steps
what he hoarded most,
motors of the night.

How far the power company let him slip
past five and Friday at five went
unheeded as an abacus
of clock hands, calendar, extra sleep.

--Thomas Robert Barnes