Salty words dance the air
fringing nerves
and putting smoking gun in hands
They all cling
like wet clothes
to a tired body
heavy and cold
Eyes peer across a somewhat empty space
searching corners
to put stories into brains
Fleshing out plots
to catch men
in a tossed soiree
smoking and black
Hands feel pockets
crinkling cellophane
bringing filtered pleasure to mouths
Igniting match
so to smoke
and hide a smile
twisted and knowing
that..
If I was a small child
I would probably be
scared of Keith
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