Stoic

He is waiting like the truth. made the smoke go clean

Your pack of marlboro turns your hands fluorescent

     casually, quickly

   like a humored tip

   moth- needed light

he used to blame it on the knife you carried

but who else. Holds you while the future shrugs in front of You

     outside He asks about the end,

and the porch. doesn’t lie

   almost a home

gliding time, rough chance

   look at you little shoulders and busy shell

   thought a cigarette could. bury it all

     but parents didn’t got along.

you smoke stoic and He goes