cigarettes

Storm damage

when I look around

really look

there’s a plastic bag of cig butts

skidding along the side path

that makes me think

teenagers were trying to break in

and a board against the back fence

like a skate ramp

were they…

while

my front teeth are growing like a rodent’s

who hasn’t gnawed enough carrot

and my guts roil and play

menacing, an active volcano

then I realise the butts were his stash

blown askew by the wind

forgotten, while death floated so close

and a fern has fallen

cracked its pot

in the morning light

I hope my teeth are all right

because

more damage has been done and

I’m more broken

than I thought

Empty Words

all the words have been used

I’m just making biscuit-ends

from scraps of pastry

language left behind

don’t want to waste it

can’t say or write

anything new so I

bake it lukewarm and then

gorge on

empty calories

and press up the crumbs

on wet fintertips as

thick clouds of ideas

stifle my mind but

when

they drift

from my mouth

they’re the thin smoke

of banned cigarettes