Lunch

3 cigarettes for lunch.

burn holes in my jeans.

potholes, crinkled

water bottles in the street.

​

30 minutes reprieve

a dead end, I chew

the filter, watch cars

drudge rain.

​

People filter through

a coffee shop, throw change

to a man and his dog

eating from a discarded

pizza box.

​

We sit on the

same stretch of sidewalk

a good distance for strangers.

I count the concrete gap

10 hours of labor.

​

He picks his teeth,

the fleas off his mutts ears,

he counts the remaining spirits

none, so he counts

the low growls of

my empty stomach.

​

We trade glances, then time.

I offer him the last stoge

for the last slice.

We mutter thanks

for the brief relief

of our daily ills.

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