A crackle and hiss as Sun’s fingers scraped over the curtains;
here and there bookshelf dust sighed — of this he was certain.
Feet up on the whiskey-stained table,
he smiled back at the four week old mud grins
on the toes of his boots.

A snap of his fingers and the Zippo lighter flamed to life —
he lit a cheroot, watching as the smoke draped his fingers,
watching the cat on the window sill
curl itself into a ball, stealing
all of morning’s secrets.

A black house spider crawled over the rip in his jeans;
the man ****** his knee back, and tilted his felt cap —
each word he spoke was covered in smoke
as he welcomed the little fella,
and cursed the world outside.