packing cigarettes she leans in,
cracked tilings are cemented together.

pinot grigio-no merlot-chilled grigio.
water beads drip...i notice...i stop one;

a bead of water bleeds over my fingertip,
i put it in my mouth. me and the bead.

ivy sanctioned metal chairs scrape
hardwood that needs paint. it creaks.

designs echo like a darners needle:
pink/red line and cellophane...

pink/red line and cellophane...
pink/red line and cellophane...

cigarette smokes, cigarette smoke
the cigarette, the smoke, her lips are moving.

i take the cigarette, there's a brand, branded
sticks; i remember rings and designs, cancer...sticks.

i remember the first considerations. the filling
of lungs. their angst and horror. blowing billows...designs.

four candles line the alley, five candles line the porch.
a neighbor puts a ten year younger wife into a limo.

there's a fan. there's a fan on the porch. the
child speaks up, a fan on the porch, turn on the porch fan.

hearty nighttime flowers - no bee. smart buds.
scents and smells...cigarette smokes...it smokes...

i'm here, i'm here, i'm here
i'm over here, here, look over here

talky talk, talky talk, talky talk
who, why, when, where, how long

he is 28. he doesn't take me out. he works motors.
he is Romanian. he loves to touch my mouth.

bats dodge the lamplights,
she's thinking of her next question.

i left sitting down. i'm weary.
she doesn't notice, but these chairs are heavy.

the pink/red cellophane blows
into her garden. the child runs...she grabs it.

she says, it's late...she hands the cellophane to her.
here she says, throw this away.

the child shakes the wine bottle. it's empty.
let's go...even the bats have gone home.

volvoesque humming over torn leather, gusts of air
blowing; the child says, it was a good visit.

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(Copyright © Donna L. Quesinberry-2008)