the stoner

past the age of fifty, the stoner no longer smoked definite things.

he filled his bong with the air, the twilight, catching in his shadows

and palpitations of color which formed the invisible core

of his silent one bedroom apartment.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/4m44fm/never_spring_clean/d3shdyp

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/4ltjq8/for_what_its_worth/d3shhk1