Smoke

Max Friedman

I remember the cracks in the sidewalk,

The anguish

that the grass in between them must have felt

just trying to push through.

The breeze that floated

like a feather,

soft, warm, maternal.

The battered screen door

escape hatch opening and closing,

the inhale and exhale,

of a broken body.

I drift through,

absorbing it all as it plays like the opening sequence

to a movie wherein anger erupts,

the aftermath like molten lava,

crusting over and drying out

over time.

The clouds always looked

like smoke,

a connection of sensory between

sight and smell.

Though I could wash it

out of my clothes, I couldn’t remove

the smoke from my core.

It stayed inside of me,

holding on, while nobody else would.

The grass would push through, though,

the screen door now stays shut.

The clouds that I chased after,

no longer seem necessary,

and the smoke fades, with each inhale

of fresh air.

 

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