Squatting
The banister our elbows scraped
Was black, flaking from rust,
And weather, and people
Just like us, who would rather
Pass time trading stories outside
Than on the squat, tanned leather couch,
Torn and matted to a patina.
We talked the same language,
With native fluency,
Bathed in greys and blues,
Trading drags on a cheap menthol,
Coughing in rhyme, alternating
Sips, gulps of the same skunked
Beer sloshing over the sides
Of a cracked, clear plastic cup.
We spat casually on the rocks below
As the smoke wrapped around us,
Ran its fingers through strands of your hair,
And tainted your perfume.
The room retched its pie-eyed occupants,
Expelling sets of two and four.
We were dizzy,
But your teeth tasted of stomach acid,
And you had smoked all of my cigarettes.
