On a Quiet
Street
The cigar tastes like
tree bark
in my mouth,
a 50 cent foible
that leaves me
spitting out slivers of leaf
after every inhalation.
Lightning bugs drift all around,
their yellow bodies blinking
on and off
like warning beacons.
I wonder about their purpose
as a cloud of smoke,
frank and biting,
layers over my head.
It’s a cool night
and I should be comfortable
but I’m restless
looking for solace in nature,
too busy counting stressors
like bleating sheep
to recognize peace
on a quiet street.
The cigar is down to the nub;
I stare at the glowing end,
alive with heat,
soon to be ash,
the night sky seems darker than usual,
another firefly nods to me
in passing.
I allow the butt
to burn my fingers
while I search the silence.
Christopher Hivner writes from a small town in Pennsylvania
surrounded by books and the echoes of music. His poetry chapbook "The
Silence Brushes My Cheek Like Glass" can be read for free at scars.tv. He can be visited at www.chrishivner.com
