"Sixty-Four Thousand, Nine Hundred and Twenty-Eight..."

Breath. Steam. A shiver.
His eyes look steady  
to the desolation of the sky.  
Spot/day light of moon,  
his oily leather jacket shines.  
  
"Nine stars," Roderick rasps  
around his cigarette;  
"that's a hell of a lonely thought-"  
  
Roderick studies his words  
as his perch is illuminated  
on the frozen asphalt,  
melting all but his shadow.  
 
A voice steps to the headlights,
through the frozen steam,  
but lost in the blinds:  
Just a voice.  
"Get up."  
One specter to another; 
"You're no Neal Cassady."  
 
-Gideon Harp