Monday, July 16, 2007


He pulls long and hard on a sweet cigar, the smell hanging stiffly between his yellow, stained fingers gripping me as I pass. It reminds me of people I no longer know or see, reminds me of things I can no longer remember clearly. The smoke rises around his sagging flesh enticing the wisps of smoke to cling to his jowls. Gray hair is flattened upon his balding head, greasy and badly combed like a winding, downhill highway. His back is hunched, the frame of his body rigidly twisted in front of the Episcopalian church. He is teetering on the curb like the memories teetering in my head as he waits for something that cannot be given. Aleathia Drehmer 2006 Published by Laura Hird Spring Showcase 2007

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