gardening

sitting in the world

the cold metal vibrations of the cigarette
bench, feet like a shed
overgrown with grassy orange
butts, the sun is struggling
to find me through the haze
of morning in late autumn, sometimes
early winter afternoons, sometimes
it peeks around the corner and asks me
the time or whether I can boil
a jug for tea. sometimes
it holds my face but not
for long enough to leave
a bruise - the shade returns
the bench gets cold again.
women flock with their hair
gobble gobble gobble
Brian’s weight-loss drama and how Leanne
gets nervous when he’s around
other girls now. the leaves
try to shake off the cold as my toes
do, while sitting with my cigarette
bench, cigarette hens, warming
my belly with the angry cigarette vibrations
of Ginsberg’s America flaming
in my hands.