Boston John

Benjamin Jenkins, life, New England, New Hampshire, poem, poems, poetry, writing

His decaf brewed from the K-cup single mug,

Steaming in a white Styrofoam cup

Doubled 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.

His palms, double cupped the glowing tip of his Sonoma Light Menthol.

He breathed that heated smoke

Down into Irish Italian lungs.

Dry foliage rustles afoot.

Spark carries sweet breath away with the wind.

He stopped for a moment to catch his breath

From the running consciousness and chasing of breath.

 

“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.

His palms, double cupped the glowing tip of his Sonoma Light Menthol

He breathed that heated smoke

Down into Irish Italian lungs.

Dry foliage rustles afoot.

Spark carries sweet breath away with the wind.

He stopped for a moment to catch his breath

From the running consciousness and the chasing of breath.

 

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

Passed the hot top of the driveway.

Passed the pines that were used to build masts in 1700.

Passed the sun enfolding everything he has built with his hands.

Passed the same morning sun, dancing on the tinted windows

Of his Ford F350.

Built pupil black armor.

Trimmed in mirror chrome.

A chip installed under the hood,

It raises the hemi, or torque, or whatever makes something:

“Wicked Pissah”.

 

His palms, double cupped the glowing tip of his Sonoma Light Menthol

He breathed that heated smoke

Down into Irish Italian lungs.

Dry foliage rustles afoot.

Spark carries sweet breath away with the wind.

He stopped for a moment to catch his breath

From the running consciousness and the chasing of breath.

His decaf brewed from the K-cup single mug,

Steaming in a white Styrofoam cup

Doubled to protect his palms from the heat.

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