These daysI only read worksfrom poetsI’m intimate withnot the cigaretteafterwards kindbut morein a crowdedroom kindwhen you readthat pieceabout smokinga cigaretteafterwardslips pursedaround a narrowfilter inhalingnicotineyour bodyabsorbing poison
Eyes shiftto a copy ofGideon’s Bibleon the nightstandnext to a stainedpanel wall
thoughts driftingto another placelike a crowdedroom withadoring fans
clappingand snappingand you forgetto tap the ashso it tumblesonto white linenburning small holes
I push pastthe audiencewith heart racingpurchasethe last copyask youto sign your nameand place it
on my nightstandnext to an ashtrayI took froman old motelI stopped intoone nightafter workinglate somewherenear Bayonneand openthe bookto that poeminhalethe fragrancelingeringfrom your fingerswhere you signedyour nameunder the titleon a clearwhite pagenext to a graphicof a long ashacross a bibleon a nightstandstill burning
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