Boston John

poem, poems, poetry

His decaf brewed from the K-cup single mug.

Sat steaming in a small white Styrofoam cup.

Double cupped to protect his palms from the heat.

He has a scar that splits his hairline

Like a pine needle lying across a crack in the concrete.

Palming the glowing tip of his Marlboro Menthol

He stopped for a moment to catch his breath.

From the running consciousness and the chasing of breath.

He cupped both palms around the clean cut

Ember of dried leaves.

He breathed that heated smoke

Down into Irish Italian lungs.

Dry foliage rustles afoot.

Spark carries sweet breath away with the wind.

“We got, let’s see. Six today, seven tomorrah, and maybe a few after.

If we can bang ‘em out quick.

Javier is coming over tomorrah after that pipe job to take care of

That Thing.

You know what I call Javier’s son? I call him my Little Taco.”

He flicks the butt of his cig; it lands sizzling in a pile of spit.

“So I says, come on Buddy! I started looking over his shouldah like

I wasn’t payin’ attention. Then I says Wha? Like that- Wha?

Then right when he leans in and thinkin’ I was lookin’ off. I-“

He slaps fist into open palm.

“Head butt ‘em right in tha fuckin’ kissah. You know. It’s like I

Always say, you’re gonna need a big chain to walk this dog. “

He smiles with wide eyes, teeth grinning, and lips tight.

Palming the glowing tip of his Marlboro Menthol

He stopped for a moment to catch his breath.

From the running consciousness and the chasing of breath.

He cupped both palms around the clean cut

Ember of dried leaves.

He breathed that heated smoke

Down into Irish Italian lungs.

Dry foliage rustles afoot.

Spark carries sweet breath away with the wind.

He looked off in the distance, as he often does.

Passed the hot top of the driveway.

Passed the pines that were once used to build masts

Because they are so tall and so straight.

Passed the sun, peaking through the wooden fence of the Neighbor’s.

Passed the same morning sun, dancing on the tinted windows

Of his Ford F450.

The truck built of reflective black armor.

Deep pupil black.

Glittering mirror chrome.

A chip installed under the hood, inside the engine.

A chip that raises the hemi, or torque, or whatever makes something

“Wicked Pissah”.

Palming the glowing tip of his Marlboro Menthol

He stopped for a moment to catch his breath.

From the running consciousness and the chasing of breath.

He cupped both palms around the clean cut

Ember of dried leaves.

He breathed that heated smoke

Down into Irish Italian lungs.

Dry foliage rustles afoot.

Spark carries sweet breath away with the wind.

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