smoking-145112_1280.png

Maybe this is more of an image exercise than a poem, but what the hell?  I’d figure I’d give it a shot.  Let me know what you think…

Propriety

At a weathered picnic table

We sit, rigid,

Sharp edges cutting valleys into forearms.

 

“No elbows on the table,”  she says

While the tip of her shoe grinds

An expired cigarette into the soft, supple earth.

Advertisements