Smoker
Smoker
Yellow-stained stench
That clings to your lips
You reek of white sticks
And browned fingertips.
But in your defense,
You’re addicted to this.
So, I’ll pity your kids
When your heart finally quits.
J.M. Rogers
The Tree
The Tree J. M. Rogers The sound of chainsaws filled Charles's head. It filled the bedroom, the bathroom, the space under his bed, the gaps between his teeth. He groaned as his eyes raked the face of an unsympathetic clock. Six-thirty? He considered storming downstairs and demanding that they all go to hell on a Saturday, but it would not restore sleep. The dreams were dead. The saws had seen to that. An orange ribbon had cast a warning from the tree's trunk all week, silently broadcasting its obituary to the neighborhood. No one stopped to say goodbye to the friendly oak, so reverent and patient in its prolonged occupation of the street. No one asked Mr. Haley why he would remove the landmark, its smooth branches spreading wide above their privacy fence. No one cared. Charles flinched as a dull boom shook the windows. The din of gurgling mechanisms diminished to a chatter, then stilled. Silence pervaded the room as if the world had ceased to exist alongside the tree. It was the...
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