The habit Fargo winters could not kill,
the wind swept chain link cage where in we went
to smoke, our coal end glowing in the snow,
finds my half corona well intent
to sit in searing heat suggesting its
the end of things which others talk about,
the dinosaurs’ revenge against the sky
that left them liquifacted under stone.
My watch says forty one, thermometer
one hundred eight and weather men declare
it feels like boiling Hades in the shade.
My fire and smoke complete the atmosphere.
This city lights a fire that burns inside.
I will remain until the final tide.
Well Bottom Blues 
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