It Would Be This

The table had just been polished
and the mist from the yellow
can lingered languid falling slower than the sun

If there were such a thing as a
clean ashtray, it would be this
amber glass piece set back down
carefully

I remember the moment she lived for and
now I live for these as well
a twelve hour shift at the factory
days off to clean
and sit
and smoke

whether the television is on or not,
whether the phone hums or buzzes
is all irrelevant
because I have no boots on my feet, no pipes slung over my shoulder, no iron-forged tools in my hand or wet cotton
grabbing me like a lover
desperately refusing to part
without my choice in the matter

If there were such a thing as satisfaction
it would be this, clean socks, table, drawers, an open pack of cigarettes set clumsily and spread open on the love seat, a cold summer breeze through the screen door, goosebumps on dry, clean flesh recently made darker by the sun with it's delicate soap smell dancing with the still hanging yellow can mist as I breath in and dry, cool, cotton lazily sprawled over my skin.

night will soon come
and with it, second wind
and dancing
but there is no thought of that now