smoking

Look Up & Down

/ Arambler / Leave a comment

It’s happening again—distortion
in the sky. Not another season
in sight. The man in a neon vest drops

his shovel. A bus rolls up—
wheels on a new white blanket.
Won’t last. Disintegration

at ground level. I watch from my skyway
perch—it is warm up
inside. Which one in stupid hat and gloves

is you? I gave up the search
decades ago. Now I extinguish the light.

Still Alarm

/ Arambler / 5 Comments

I’ll write everything down
so I can forget

you and how you were my last
smoking one, my last

lover to take flame
so literally, the one daily

companion left to invite me
to climb those pariah stairs. It’s time

to put you in the cupboard
behind those pans I never use.

The only things left to shake
are these hands—then they’ll quit too.