(no subject)
I walk out the front door and around to the side of the garage. The two cigarettes are torn so that some of their guts spill. I toss the halves into the bushes. I withdraw the pack, crush it with my foot, and push it towards its bleeding passengers. Such a different life if I had lived in her house! The house is painted with thick white paint. The siding is soiled. To my right are three full trash cans. A soggy, unraveling rug drapes over the middle can. The garbage smells like sweetened armpits. I walk along the dirt path to get to the front porch. There is a chain prostrated on the cement; a fire poker leans against a pilaster. On the railing is the pot full of cigarette butts. I remember that three days ago, the pot was empty.
not mine.