Fourteen

In its minuscule

totality this life wavers,

as the droning pit-a-pat

from the left of my chest’s

centre.

 

To each their own as their

ends justify their meaninglessness,

nutmeg scented vapour blends

with cigarette smoke, as

disembodied chatter keeps the

noise at bay.

 

As we wait for the pots

water to boil under, vivify the

pasta and red-speckled

beans.

 

Another smoke then off into

the liquid skies, into all the unthought.

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