Saturday, July 7, 2012

Residue

I was propped in bed
smoking a cigarette
under the ceiling fan
after recent exertion.

My wife,
fluffing her hair
in the bathroom mirror,
had already moved on to talking
about how her cell phone
no longer holds a charge.

Strange.
All I could hear
and see and taste
was the nasty yellow residue
my ex-wife left

hovering around
my nakedness
like smoke rings
that never float away.



Yes, Poetry - July 2012 (titled there as I Have a Hard Time with Happiness)

No comments:

Post a Comment