Transitions

First,

Sometimes at night, I sneak a cigarette
in the backyard, curse
the motion sensor
the God damn its between
bright-light; wake-the-neighbor’s-dog
and finding the switch in the dark.
It’s always in the same place, shoulder high
right inside the door
but my skinny bone fingers never
get it fast enough, with
the kitchen clocks counting
and the dumb mutt stirring
1 Mississippi, 2 Mississippi

Next,

There are the nights, I chain smoke
lighting the second, third, fourth,
with the red ember remains of the
one before it. Breathing in
and breathing out I know I am
until
the train passes, as it seems to do
from time to time
when,
I do the math in my head:

speed of train?

speed of barefooted,
cloud-headed country girl,
a half-lit American Spirit
and at least one smoke filled lung?

Yes, obviously.

Then,

On the train, fellow dreamers
tell me I am quite beautiful, I believe them
offer what’s left of my matches,
and as my hair grows long, collect
lavender from roadsides.

Finally.