cancer
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I feel the air against my face,tugging the hair from my eyes.The sun sings its same old refrain,assuring me the day has no end,and this kingdom of dirt and lightis mine to rule. Come here, friend, I tell a ladybug,and study her through the glass,a tiny iced donut from Winchell’s shop.When I stare too long,wings
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He’s sitting there, teeth clenched in his mouth,mouthing the last line of a Madonna song—a virgin, cherry popped—and it spirals: Hostess pies,lunchbox dreams,Twinkies, deep-fried in a skillet,sizzling next to a T-bone, rare. A dog flashes by, socks on its paws,German Shepherd, retired police,once ate a cat—had to put him down.Dad comes next,cancer stole his voice,then
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I smoked my first Parliament cigarette today. I’m not a smoker, but I’ve had maybe 40 cigarettes in my life. Second-hand smoke? I lived with a father who smoked two packs a day until I left for college. Google tells me I’ve smoked ‘20 pack-years’(a back year being 20 cigarettes) indirectly. Add my own, and
BB Grey--musings 