365
I’ve been waiting since 3:65 yesteryear
to see you in my room,
chewing on an old cigarette and
smiling.
I’ve been doing nothing, really,
sitting around the old couch and
fingering the remote;
and yes, my mother is doing all right.
It never rains there,
and I wish you could come here every day
if only to feel the rain sting
the soft skin around your neck.
But it’s been 365 days too many, and
now that you’re here
I’ve run out of things to say,
watching you force your face
(cigarette smoke coiling in the cold air)
to smile
like there’s no tomorrow.
