Purple hair- A dyeing accident.
Sitting, cross-legged on the front porch-
Hood covering eyes,
Hands holding cigarette,
Fingers flicking ash;
You sit watching nothing-
Watching smoke make clouds over your eyes.
You take delight in not seeing clearly
What is there.
Because with clarity comes sadness,
Such a pure agony-
The first rain storm before the world
Recycled itself and swallowed its failures.
Sadness that bites&stabs&nags
And won’t let up.
The knife of moonlight
Cuts through your curtain of nicotine.
And from our house up on the hill
You can see straight into your old dining room.
See him eating burnt toast at the big table,
And paying bills- Glasses sliding down the ridge of his nose;
Bald head reflecting lamp light-
Alone.
You can smile.
You are also alone.
It is his coat on and keys-in-hand
That makes you pace- Hands jumping
From one pack to the next,
Mouth fuming like a steam engine-
Without destination.
You step through the haze of your own making
Back into the afternoon when you stand,
Sun&Stones in your stomach,
And knock on her door.
He answers, and your heart fills up
With so much dusty, grey hatred-
You forget
Your first puff and exhale;
The release you felt.
(All you covet now are the clouds.)
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Submission Name: Grandma
