Smoker’s Dawn

Dark against the morning glare
A woman lights a smoking-flare.
Pressing the white stub to her lips,
She leans against the slatted siding
And rests her foot on an old porch chair.
Her mind wanders, her attention slips
 
And once more she is a little girl hiding
In the dark musky cellar while her sister
Counts down from ten.
Once more she cradles a broken doll
And shouts in tears at her brother.
 
And then she is back again
A woman stale and dry
Who doesn’t laugh and doesn’t cry
And stands alone out on her porch
To smoke and greet the dawn's approach.

 

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Second Draft:

She stands, a stone and denim statue
One foot on a plastic porch chair pedestal
And the sun rises, grimy and red
A larger version of the glowing circle
She holds in the comfortable groove of her fingers.

Her hand rises, boney and wrinkled
And only the dullest of light
Reflects in her tired red eyes.
As the trees form a crooked silhouette
She remembers a morning years ago

When she stood, watching a Praying Mantis
Slowly, slowly move his limbs,
Performing the silent dance of dawn
Across the porch railing and the red sun
And she remembers the feeling of life in her blood.

Then she breathes in and forgets.
For she is stone now and stone
May remember but can not care.
Stone is only worn by the years
But does not wear them well, not well at all.

 

 

 

________________________________________

First Draft 

Dark against the morning glare

A woman lights a smoking-flare

And presses the white stub to her lips.

She leans against the slatted siding

And rests her foot on an old porch chair.

 

Her mind wanders, her attention slips

 

And once more she is a little girl hiding

In the dark musky cellar while her sister

Counts down from ten.

 

Once more she cradles a broken doll

And shouts in tears at her brother.

 

And then she is back again

A woman stale and dry

Who doesn’t laugh

And doesn’t cry

And stands alone out on her porch

To smoke and greet the dawn's approach.

The End

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