Poetry

137. the city is my garden, after all / winter brings the air

I refuse a cigarette,
prolong my death.
Another year, or so.

Ash, like the town, is gray.
So they say.

Away, away,
it flies to the barricade.

Where children wait
for air.

 We poke, they do not stir.
Too late, too late.

There are bodies at the barricade.
A life is cushioned by the dead.
I refuse a cigarette.

Summer heat reveals their bones.
Ashes in the sun,
where sons are stones.

Entrenched behind the dead,
I smoke a cigarette. To keep the smell away.
Or so I say.

The barricade is gone, when
winter comes and brings the air.

No one is there.

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