Ashlandsblog

I met my Al at my best,
Lines raking the edge of his eyes,
Burnt at the neck,
An old cat.
I wish I could say beautiful,
But he was invasive, warmth creeping in.
If I looked away, his voice unbuttoned
My being.
It’s always cold in this city,
The moment I step away for
My beloved cigarette.
She reminds me I have to buy her,
Pay in tar under my teeth,
And at the tip of my fingers.
But my Al is the relief
That doesn’t come in a box,
Someone I can’t
Throw a twenty at.