I like to smoke
while it's raining outside.
Long cigars with plastic tips
on the end.
I hand pick them
each time I
get em.
Roll them between my fingers
fondling each one
to make sure they're
just
right.
They're perfect for
smoking
during the down pour.
Makes it feel
like I finished rolling
in the hay.
The combination of
smoke
and me
between the water
causes my gears to grind.
Searching the floor for
that lost puzzle piece.
I like that.
Nothing matches that feeling
of rain and smoke
and your mind going.
No, voices in my head
or prescriptions
no love or attention
from a man.
not the income
I make
or **** lingerie
I wear from time to time.
What can hold a candle
to this shower
is
writing.
nothing compares
to it.
keeps the clouds
full,
fat with
dehydrated
water.
Gives the lions
something to lick.
Makes the dirt
rich with mud.
Writing is better than
any therapist,
the best lover
parent
and friend.
That's why you're here
to read this.
That's why I write
hundreds of poems.
You already know too-
how writing is kind
bitter-
salty
or sweet.
I want to end
this one sour
My cigar is out
the cherry hit
a metal chair and
fell to the ground
my naked foot, exposed
burned.
The rain
snuffed out the rest
of the ember.
leaving a black mark.
Just thought you'd
like to know
*******.
