The First Cigarette
I step out on this cold October morning
silent except for last night’s cricket and
Canadian Geese flying low in the overcast sky.
It is just after my coffee and I light the first cigarette.
He is there on my front lawn behind the white lattice fence
where the Japanese Morning Glories grow
His hair as still as winter wheat.
With knees bent he crouches low on the frosty grass
wearing a red t-shirt and blue shorts
like most boys his age ignores October’s chill.
He does not see me here behind the fenced-in yard or
seem to hear the geese flying overhead
nor the singular chirping of that last remaining cricket.
He is reading
his black horn-rimmed glasses resting delicately on his nose
and reluctant pale skin professing summer’s end.
His backpack lies abandoned by the raised bed of fallen leaves
A book lies upright on his open palms
while his body sways imperceptibly on its haunches defying gravity and
the presence of a godless world.