I kiss the spliff as the neighbor
across the street stares out his porch windows.
He clasps his upper lip
with his left hand—
thumb and pointer finger
split like a horseshoe.
The difference in temperature
from outside and my porch
is hardly measurable.
The feathers in my jacket
fight to keep my body heat
captive beneath my MAS*H sweatshirt.
His porch must be a four-season
because he hovers over his desk
in a t-shirt with a cigarette
in his mouth.
Maybe he’s writing, or reading,
        doing homework or work work.
Whatever it may be,
it stirs a bit of jealousy in me.
I wish to be home, sitting
in the warmth of my four-season porch,
where many stories are saved.
Scrapbooks full of memories.

The streetlight on the corner of
8th and Harriet talks in Morse code
every Sunday night at half past eight.

Maybe it’s asking to be saved
from the blistering cold. Maybe
it has feelings for the moon

and only wants to be noticed.
It must get lonely working
the same corner for years

and nobody bothers to return thanks.
My guess is it’s trying to communicate
with fellow streetlights

and plan an attack like the Ents
did before they went to
war on Isengard.

But then again, only in my mind
I make perfect sense. After all,
it is just a malfunctioning street light.

Looking over my mom’s shoulder
while she sat in her chair
with her Toshiba laptop, and
a hummingbird’s beak
was nestled in sugar water
outside the living room window.

Engaged in her game of “Buck Euchre”
while I massaged her stiff neck
with my tired fingers, she
messaged her opponents
“You guys will be lucky to
take one ‘trick’ this round
with the hand I got.”

Her brisk tapping of the keyboard
seemed nearly in sync
with the fierce flickering of
the hummingbird’s wings.

I wondered what it’d be like
if my mom had energy
like a hummingbird everyday—
upbeat and alert,
But I knew that wish was
out of reach. Chemo kept her
house-ridden;
either in her bed or a seat.

“Yes! Ha! Ha! suckers,” my
mom shouted,
“Ben, there’s no way they will beat me.”
I smiled and said,
“You show ‘em, Mom.”

Sitting on a bench just off the
Liberty Trail in Boston, waiting as
the rest of my family made a restroom stop.
An old man with a thick, greyish
beard and heavy eyelids
took a seat next to me.
His ***** white hair caught
a cotton seed sailing through the air.

The bag of tobacco in his hand
was wide open, and he
pulled a roll of Zig-Zags
out of his pocket—he tore
the paper about six inches long
and proceeded to
roll a cigarette. His fingers,
bent and forlorn,
worked tediously as a
diamond cutter’s.

He lit the cigarette, let out a ring of smoke,
and introduced himself as
Lenny. I told him my name
and we talked for a few minutes.
"What brings you to Boston
young fella?" he said
in his aged Boston accent.
"Family vacation--personally, I'm
interested in all the history of the town."

By now his cigarette is
half-burnt, and my family is
ready to continue on the trail.
Lenny turned to me with
a low look in his eyes,
but he cracked a smile.
He had a couple teeth missing

Before I got up he said to me,
“When I want to sit and think,
a cigarette isn’t long enough
to burn through my thoughts,
but a conversation with a
stranger every day
is what keeps my mind
from running away in smoke.”

My CD player starts
spinning,
songs singing,
eyes seeing.
In that moment I recede from
reality and into the page.

Elevated to new heights;
a symmetrical splash
into a new world.
A solid shore serenated
by a storm of new music.

No two beats the same—
Each with its own aura that
sings of fallen life
worth a memory
as it disappeared in smoke
to weave a story like a river.

They all glisten with
unparalleled perfection
as their story is penned
during a 45 minute decent,
freefalling to their own rhythm.

My wasted memory
is messing with me.
A memory where
I was left
hanging threaded
through a needle
I found in a haystack.

My past showed up and
she sent my thoughts into
a vortex of uneasiness.

I tried to reconcile
with that memory,
but it wasn’t as
rectifying as I had hoped.

Chaos surrounds the calm realm
I store the memory—waiting for
its chance to erupt and
resurrect what I wished would stay
dead.

It’s a wasted memory
for a reason—
I want it to stay that way.

She comes off as rude
and makes it obvious—
the only time she ever
makes her intentions known.

She took advantage of
my vulnerability
and left me sunk
as lost treasure.

I need to learn
to see some things
for what they are sometimes,
and that sometimes
a memory is just a memory.

I’m wasted, it’s wasted;
give me a double shot
of Jack Daniels
and let’s keep things that way.

like a cigarette, ignited and raised to your scornful lips
you made me your addiction
and i let you consume me