Last Cigarette Under The Rock
He was the last of forty-four.
Educated killers in clean boots.
The best, they said, then broke.
Forty-three went into stone.
Into fluorescent burrows, teeth bared.
They fought until numbers meant nothing.
Then only one kept breathing.
It should have been two survivors.
We flipped a coin, like drunks.
One takes tags, letters, names.
The other stays with the sun.
A fusion bomb, hand-detonated.
I don't know if I won. I'm alive, still, technically speaking. But the room eats silence whole.
Shadow screams behind my ribs.
I turn around, you're there.
Cigarette trembling in cheap ash.
Then I blink; you're gone.
Dreams lie like bar mirrors.
They show you, then sell you.
I searched alleys of sleep.
Your name slipped through my fingers.
When it was time, you vanished.
To prove some brutal splendor.
I never bet on miracles.
I miss you before knowing.
Like hunger, beginning with b.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
