What I Do


for Brenda, but she never knew it

As she drives

she places the inhaler in her
mouth, fires a puff deep, holds
her breath

until she can breathe again.
I still carry a Zippo, light
her cigarettes, watch my
heart melt in the shadow
of the flame. It is an old

lighter. At a Rainbow Festival
someone gave it to me
for a six-pack of beer. I still
carry it, light her cigarettes,
fall in love, look into the dark

window of her car
when she takes
out the inhaler. There are
things I can’t change. So

I write poetry instead.

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