the wooden steps to the door
of the mobile home,
aching and resisting
the pressure you apply.
windows boarded by the smoke,
because you could never quit-
not for your lust for life,
not for your savior.
I sat on a twin size bed
and contemplated our nature,
listened to the PSA
playing in the living room:
\"two dead, no trace of the killer,
be cautious, be wary\"
and I heard that,
but did not listen.
where were you?
in your room rolling a joint,
making phone calls to the county jail,
smashing bottles?
I\'d take three hour long walks
just to breathe,
listening to music
instead of your bellowing cries.