Smoker 66

Hands touch shoulders and weight leans in
and he moved.
Hands touch shoulders and weight leans in
and I moved.
Nose to nose
glasses reflected in my eyes.
Nose to nose
eyes reflected in his glasses.
Ready to kill
if it is now
if today is the day
if this is how the movie ends
if this is the final show down.

Friends.  Shake.  Apologize for

I can't remember what I said

or why I attacked him
with sledgehammer words
he deflected.

The sword artist of verbal combat, swinging drunk.

Shame, tapped out a breath at a time,
regretting touching a man I've insisted on hugging because
handshakes are cheap and touching breast bones
and allowing someone to come so near
to force threat down their throat
like a rolled up magazine
is not the way
to approach
conflict.

Tapping time out
a breath a time
from the end of a
cigarette.  Wondering
what our next conversation will be (if there is one),
remembering the death threats
through eyes different and
the same,
the ashtray

has nothing for me
beyond the passage
of time and its
silly healing.
Apologies, genuine
have more legs.
Sobriety too.  Email
sent.  Wait for a reply
that may or may not
ping.