Smoke

Curiosity Doesn’t Always Sneak Around Killing Cats

 

On Friday nights

she puts on Ariats,

clouds of smoke,

clanking shot glasses.

 

She prefers to recline in a dryer chair,

pink lemonade.

At the gas station

practicing checkers,

a pitcher of sun tea. Between lips–

 

bedsheets hung out to dry

through a tiny hole in a

sturdy backyard fence. A brick

church, polished pews,

she tilts her head,

listens–

                silence.

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