Chickenshit

Ol’ Charlie chants
something prayer-like,
all coiled and encrypted,
a personal canticle
having something to do
with the weight
of his escapists foot
on the slightly squeaking
beautiful bare-wood stair,
abandoner of that plush sight-
her hair upon the pillow spread
in rare and spooky pre-dawn light.

Charlie-boy has cheek enough to seek
a colder comfort in the overhang
of snowdrifts at culvert crossings,
the mountains peaceful lee,
the pines that flank and rise above
the grim granite chaos of the scree.