Cough of a Dead Man
I sat next to God at a bus stop tonight, cold, wet, musty and old. Too nervous to move, I stared at the deck. He poked his finger into a cigarette pack, rustling for a Marlboro — stuck. With the cough of a dead man, he asked for a light. “I’m sorry, I quit,” Said softly as if trying not to wake him. After an awkward beat, I focused back on the deck. Probing further as if to paint my picture — eyes narrow, He pushed against the bench back, stretched and sighed. His hand scraped up his chin from a sweat-streaked neck.