Ken Kakareka

Second-hand Smoke

 
It’s a chilly night;
I’m sitting at my desk
by the window.
The poetry is flowing
like booze from a tap.
My neighbor is smoking
on the patio out back
and smoke wraps around a corner
and drifts in.
My senses are pleased.
It’s been a while
since I’ve had a smoke
and second-hand
is never unwelcome.
Sometimes I prefer it.
I lift my head
from my page
and let the smoke coast
beneath my nostrils
like a snake.
Sirens cry far away
in the lonely night.
I get up to check the commotion,
press my flared nostrils
against the screen
and beg for more.
But when I peek through
the curtain of the window
that my desk faces
she is gone. 

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