On my porch in the creation of what is night
a man approaches me from the street
excuse me sir, he states
have you another cigarette for me
i hesitate for a moment but stand and deliver the line
give me a moment to grab one from my pack
as i am inside retrieving that
i hear a noise and he is standing in my living room
i turn to him and say
that doorknob you turned to enter
is to be grabbed only by me and my
expected visitors, and for that i am sorry
but you requested cigarette of the night will vanish
with this he exits
i close the door and lock the restraints
i find my spot on the sofa
as he finds his spot on the sidewalk
as a writer
i have found alcohol
i have found it to be debilitating
to be the surface for my creating
i have found it to be incriminating
for my nights in loneliness, contemplating
i have found it to be useful and to make me a fool
but most of all i use it as a writing tool.
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