hat
black top man with great walk
standing by the curb
smoking what seems like the thousandth cigarette
when the day ends
gloom appears on his forehead
shadow binding his lips
and a handkerchief stuck on his pocket
left if you must know of the place
the clouds cast another shadow
on his feet
where the cigarette butts
have mounted a hill of its own
ants can’t get through
and the venom from red ones
make it across his torn shoe
money to spend
money to waste on cigarettes
drowning his throat with poison
there was once a time
he could sit with his kids
and watch Mickey Mouse pass by
but now his kids don’t come near
wherever near happens to be
he can’t say
the cigarette smoke clouds his eyes
and the hat he wears
covers the tear stains
on his cheeks
love disappears
as each cigarette does
and love gobbles up
the internal scream
deep inside his aging cavity
his person
his frame
sterile and drowning
he listens to the cars rush by
and tap into the beat he senses on his feet
no socks and no water splashing
onto his octopus
never seen before on his arm
and the pain starts
begins to wane
then prevents his arm
from bringing the dirty cigarette to his lips
a passerby filled with compassion
lifts his elbow
and makes sure the cigarette touches his lips
before leaving and saying how he feels
about him
standing there
giving death a whole new name
and how to win the lottery
but all he cares about is the cigarette
pressed on his lips
he bites it for it no longer holds the flame
no smoke
no love
no real compassion
but the hat he wears
flies off in the distance
as the clouds are whisked away
and the shadow hovering over him
disappears he lifts his head and sees her
sees her tiny face through the cracked window
and he crosses the street
cruel…
cruel
cranky
restless
regimen
driving me nuts
to music
piped in
condition my left deltoid
distract myself from the pain
big head
crisscrossed with scars
slashed
leg curls
which apparatus I hated most
hurts like a son of a bitch
soared deep
jumping-off spot for suicide attempts
mom fired him
some asshole
cunning imitation
single-minded attention
most women have to buy in a box
inanimate
that’s how I spent my summer vacation
your head on the bed
yellow veins pop from opened eyes
glaring at the window your body escaped through
mouth agape
as if screaming to get free
dry drool on the pillow
the blood sticks to
how fast your hair withers
how slow for you to process the change
without a choice and without word
your head replaces years of torment
how easy to keep the memento
and laugh at the irony
where is your strong arm now?
where is the piece which poked?
the head can stay and rot
my time is with the world
living without the pain of your arms
taming the sun
and dancing death as it should have been
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