Cigarettes and a Forty Dollar Guitar.
Driving away from your house
I always wonder
If my cigarettes will ever
Expire.
It’s my hope that
By ingesting my body with
Nicotine and irrelevant thought
That it would somehow
Supplant the sexual frustrations
You leave me with.
When I get lonely
I tend to play my guitar
Until I fall asleep next to it,
Holding it because it can hold a tune
Far better than I can
And it never turns it’s back to me
Because I played a bad chord
Or strummed it a touch too hard.
My guitar has frets
But none that could move me
Like the times you fret.
It’s got a neck and curves
Delicately shaped and cut
To produce songs and
Melancholy finger picking,
Yet doesn’t puzzle-piece my face
Like your neck and curves tend to do.
When you do hold me,
Though rare and laboriously planned,
I feel my skinny jeans tighten
And your breathe grow more audible
Only to be interrupted by a yappy dog
Or intrusive mothers,
Leaving my stomach queasy
And patience tested.
Why it only takes half a cigarette
To fully recuperate my patience
Never seemed quite clear to me,
But I’m satisfied it does.
poem by Eli MorenoDrew
Added by Poetry Lover
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