Shadow

Never, they say, and I concede,

because no one ever bothered

to put always in my vocabulary,

and I couldn’t muster the strength

to find it buried in the ashtray.

The shadow of my mother’s lamp

on the tarnished table in the corner

looms larger than its frame, and I can’t

help but wonder how a vessel of light

could ultimately produce such darkness.

My lungs probably ask the same question.

Maybe if my eyes weren’t so bloodshot

and heavy, I’d have the time to puzzle out

these conundrums, but my mouth

has gone dry and all I can do now

at this late hour is watch the smoke

from one last chewed cigarette

spiral slowly and sensually skyward

into shadow, before the embers extinguish

and I flatten myself into one of them.