combustibles

there is no fire in this house.
electric stove.
no candles.
no cigarettes.

though i often inhale
the wafts of secondhand clouds.
the neighbors,
post coital
or stress relieving.

our shared breath
weighs heavy on my chest.
my runner's lungs cringing
at the rusting
of their well oiled pedigree.

and every time i am a boy again.
with a father trying
to keep his dark clouds on the porch
but the front door
was never as strong as he had hoped.



wb