So in Novemeber rain
******* on wet cigarettes like babe at milkless breast
I am passed
by the jogger.
Tanned limbs wrapped in polyester
hair wet by salt and water
I entertain myself
with the thought
that we
are the two types of people
who come out on Monday mornings in weather like this;
scars turning purple in the cold
all numb fingers and gooseflesh
and their breath
as white as mine
against the dark of early the sunrise
is a great leveler
on days like today.

These are the mornings I do not go hungry
in fear of the growing space between my thighs -
the masters of illusion
can make themselves appear invisible
but I cannot conceal my disappearing act much longer.
I am sixteen smoker's cough they tell me
I have a heart murmur I take it
as irrefutable proof I have
a heart feeling
the early
seeds
of death settle
in my chest with every drag,
some things are inexcusable
and I am learning that I am not blameless.

A few too many nights walking under unlit streetlamps
do not make you a victim I am learning that I
am not the victim Atlas shrugging off responsibility
a person
can only carry so much guilt
before they bend and
bad backs run in my family
so
I may be a coward -

but I will never say I was not warned.