Friday, April 2, 2010
Coffee in my mustache. Coffee in my beard. I haven’t had a cigarette in years. I remember once sharing a pack of unfiltered Camels with a friend late one night in a coffee shop in Fresno, long before the smoking rules had changed. I was relatively clean-cut then. My mustache smelled like smoke for days, long after it had all been washed away. The smoke was in my nostrils. The smoke was in my mind. The smoke was what I yearned for when I stepped outside. A lot of people know, but still don’t realize, if you’re up at the right time, you can see the dew arrive.
Recently Linked: My thanks to Annie McDermott for her kind words in this concise, mournful entry of her blog, Unfiction.
“Morning Notes” added to Poems, Slightly Used.
In the Forum: F’ool’s’.