Another Day

Brett Lock

Another day.
And my jeans smell like smoke.
I have slept too long here
and I need my friends.
So that we can laugh,
and drink,
and smoke it up,
and waste the hours.

Trapped by my mind/heart
that cannot respond
to terror,
nor the sweaty hand of the mourning,
nor the cold stare
of the night.

And you…
“You are so beautiful,”
my mother said to me –
she saw my mourning clothes.
I would cry just a little bit
if my soul
were not so cold.

Another day.