He Smokes Her Home

by on March 24, 2018 :: 0 comments

He likes the sound, the scrape
Wooden match scratching worn leather boot
The dent in his thumb and pointer finger
That groove left long after
Her last point

He always lights his cigarette, crooked pinky lifted
With an air, a curve of class married
With his country
She was the classy one
And he draws in deep smoky curls, rolling greys and white
Tugging that old familiar sting, the burn upon his lonely lips
Dragging, long and low, needing to be filled
But smoke doesn’t stay, it doesn’t take up holes
It disappears, gone

His lips only touch Marlboro’s now
Styrofoam coffee cups, a plastic fork now and then
He’s slowly fading, evaporating
Exhaling her wedding veil, filmy and light
The soft flow of her dress, pearl beads puffs down her back
Walking that long aisle to take his side
Ribbons of smoke, gossamer, tying back her auburn hair
He can almost see her eyes
Watching ashes fall
Landing gently, snowflakes out the window on their wedding night
Dropping to the carpet, just like his wife, long ago

editors note:

Adds sad depth to “smoke’em if you got’em.” (This poem is included in Heather’s recently released collection, Altar Call of Trumpets, published by Red Dashboard. Congratulations, Heather! Read more about it and get your copy here.) – mh clay

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