Write Back Soon

by September 6, 2018 0 comments

When my physician,
out of professional
interest, asks me
if I smoke, I tell him
no, then let it sit, think
of that rainless May,
my last in grad school,
when I’d come home,
smoke two Parliaments
down to the bone, ear-
buds in, listening to
that one Superchunk
B-side, a song
off an A-side,
which in 1994
got little play anyway.
In 1994 my brother
was born. When he
visits me in Jersey
City, I want him to
show up with more
than a shrug. They’re
tossing grandpa
into assisted living,
he says. You never
call dad. There are
three or four marbles
stuck in my throat
when I ask Eric if he
smokes; he doesn’t, I
know, but I know he’ll
cut one with me
if I ask him nicely.
Outside, every summer
cloud is loud with this
cancerous din I hear
loudest when my car-
cinogenic head fills
like a gas tank with
all my vices, alive
and latent. I’d like,
for once, an an-
swer or two, some-
thing like a tattoo
I could remove
or a mind
that isn’t mine.

editors note:

It all burns down to ash, anyway; no mind at all. – mh clay

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