WHILE SITTING ON THE LAST BENCH

rolling a cigarette downhill in my palm
after twisting the stocking into a paper nail
my stigmata, impending. my Bic lighter. empty.
I found a match like a failsafe with a yellow scalp.
and struck the bell with grit
and tugged nicotine and other things,
trapped in the ghost
of my wanting

purging my lungs of fresh air
leaving only the shanties of blue ravens
unreconciled in the twilight polyphony
while sucking a thumb
sitting on the last bench
of a gone park.

II

my feet were cold. i recall-
because they spoke to me
with the tongue of my shoes
flat on the bent earth
and my flask was spoiling for a nip
as i paused to reject the 4am of it all-
slumped in my repose-
like an Emo scarecrow
pumping smoke rings
into the engine
of the Night.

hammering thoughts
into the fog
without

swinging.