And then I said, That's what it means
to testify: to sit in the locked dark muttering
when you should be dead to the world. The demon
just shrugged and covered his bloodshot eyes.
He's turning warehouse
into condo, While I'm selling everything
at bottom basement prices.
He throws packs, bottles, and needles out the window;
After he left, I used to pick them up
before he could collect more things
to feed to the river.
Who slapped him first?
The demon has covered his face
with his hands. It's really only a reflex
of the history that sired him:
something to say, "You are beating down
too hard on my pith helmet; the oil slick
on the river's not my fault, and you know you love it;
when are you coming home?"
In the sludge that drowns the river, the rats
pick fights with the debris. The demon knows us all
by name; he's looking through his fingers
like a fence.
(If you're going to delete this poem, please tell me. I don't know if you deleted the last one or if I posted it somewhere else.)
My Milage:My Quit Date: 5/1/2009
Smoke-Free Days: 232
Cigarettes Not Smoked: 6,496
Amount Saved: $2,517.20
Life Gained:Days: 25
Hrs: 9
Mins: 26
Seconds: 23