the whites of eyes catch glimpses behind
the shadows of trees in streetlight
the flick of my lighter attracts inattention
everybody with their own business to mind
and with just a bit more in this roach and bottle of coke
I can stay here and smoke
as my own shadow hopes so deep that I cope
The light of a dark beach uneasily acknowledged
met by the comfort of herb in rolled paper
resting easy between fingers like a lever
that can compound or release
an essence of energy
the rest is up to me
I write poetry.
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