Conversations

He exhales sharply,
swings out a pack of Marlboro’s,
offers me one.
I tug, shaking hands
and watch the smoke tumble to the ceiling.
Pen and paper
lie at my feet
Tools of the trade

The tendrils of smoke shine
White against the dark table
Blue against the white walls
Continuously in motion
Perpetually expanding
Frequently interrupted
by gusts of wind - -
slow motions of the hand

Grey folds lay in a shell
around the flaming red
and dirty flakes fall onto my black jeans
Smudging
as I swiftly
stroke a hand over them.

Brown spots signify
Age on the wrinkled white paper
but I suck with desire
exhale with pleasure
and it is merely addiction
which keeps these white curls
Rising
Ascending

I cross my legs
Ankles trembling
Knees aching from the
strain imposed by
traffic and my father's stick shift
Eyes linger on an ugly,
irregular tan tainting my arms.

My pen moves frantically
across cream-coloured paper
and I struggle
to search for miracles in the ink
picture a life by this pen -
lonesome and dark.

Sadness lines the fringes of eyelashes
and he refuses to waste
a single glance on me
Ghostly curls frame his forehead
Unmoving
but gentle nonetheless.

Violent prints
decorate white material around his chest
and he pulls
anxiously on its edges,
lifts a steaming cup of coffee
to moist lips,
swallows humbly,
eyes moving about,
anywhere but on me.

Want another? He asks,
thrusts the pack
of cigarettes at me.
So I tug, hands shaking
and watch the smoke tumble
to the ceiling.

Reviews

[Constance L. Hartwell]

This was a magnificent piece of writing. With your words, you painted the entire scene in my head! You used illustrative prose in such a beautiful way that I felt as if I were in the poem. I loved it.