That's what they call you around here
so you don't get mixed up with the other Sams
that live in our apartment block.
every night I watch you outside my window
blowing clouds of cancer.
Last night I went out,
joined you beneath the soggy leaves of the maple tree
and we talked.
Red-neck cowboy, you speak in the southern drawl,
you voice is as low and as calm as rocking ocean waves back home.
You aren't stunning.
You aren't the kind of good-looking that makes people stop and stare,
aside from your hair.
But you are beautiful.
You're gentle and smart,
an artist at heart.
After you were done smoking you invited me up,
so I sat on your bed and we listened to music,
but then I left, as the hours were slipping past
too late to be awake.
Yet I lay in my bed sleepless, my heart burning
like red-head Sam.