back home
we talk past each other
and always about other people
in our circles.
we only care
about ourselves.

back home
we have a small garden
eight feet of space
nice and well-kept
shielding out the concrete reality.

back home
we smoke so much
we've forgotten the taste of fresh air.
we smoke until our rooms get blue
and our lungs black.

we smoke to **** time
and ourselves.

back home
not only smoke fills the air
shouts
shrieks
screams
and happy pop tunes
endlessly on the radio.