he stabs a pink ham hock paw into the black plastic gap toothed ash bowl, fishing for sick sticks he stares as he stabs, defiantly vulnerable in his need - nicotine lurched him, pried him from narrow daylight, exposed him here in the day's broad window. he is a hungry ghost that filches the unfinished, stealing strays, bored cravings abandoned too soon. how many mouthes has this man tasted? all that DNA smoked forward, lip to lip. how intimately he knows them, has inhaled the tiniest increment of their being into himself as he, the unwitting kiss collector, furls himself back into our agreed upon shade. dressed head-to-toe in degrees of blue, as if he couldn't settle on the exact hue of melancholy that he could comfortably wear in shame, all his clothes too huge, as if trying to leave room, a place of his own to hide his ash tipped despair. i don't remember him sitting inside with us, he just appeared, out there, his face a permanently clenched & swollen fist, stabbing & glaring, those fierce screwdriver eyes chipping sparks of glacier blue.
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