He leans back in a rusting fold out chair,
Resting his eyes from the burn of yellow light,
Illuminating the cracked concrete floor.
He places a glowing cigarette between his lips,
Brushing his stained hands against the scruff of his beard.
He exhales,
And white puffs of smoke float out of his lungs,
Into the darkness of the night.
Swarms of ants circle like a storm around sticky spilt beer on the ground.
The panels across the walls shake,
As Jimmy Buffet’s voice blares from the radio,
An echoing voice inside his head.
The green light emitted from the radio reads 4:09 am,
Every inhale tastes like the irresistible stench of gasoline,
Destructive, yet consuming.
The fridge buzzes like white noise,
Blending into the sound of chirping crickets and rain.
The sticky summer air wraps itself around his skin.
A glass rests on the counter, filled to the brim.
The bubbles dance, tempting him.