The rug was barely growing
Between my toes when it
Was whipped from beneath me this time,
And
All I had was a nasty little
Friction burn on the soles
Of my feet instead of a floor scorched face
And,
Left standing, I am better
Placed to survey the scenery
And see the eventual peace pipe arriving.
Because it will, because it
Always has, attached to
A contrite hand cupping its love wood bowl,
And
Stuffed with the finest filler
She’s willing to blend from
The ends of the previous evening’s cigarettes,
And
This is the life she offers:
Yesterday’s leftovers; poked
And prodded into tomorrow’s brand new coat.
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