white road lines merging under

our worn out tires,

taking us away

the radio vibrates with

noise over the homeless 

man on the curb,

boombox over stereo

used to be versions of me

over what we’re left with

I love the smell of cigarette smoke 

Not because I’m a smoker, I love the smell because 

It takes me back, back to the piss stained streets 

That raised me, where the overwhelming aroma

Of freshly lit cigarettes plagued the air 

she is four years old

toddling around

on wooden floors

like a spinning top,

too short to reach the cabinets or

see above the sink,

clambering atop

countertops

to reach her

pink plastic glasses

Age is just a number

We all start out at one

But someone’s first year

Is another’s seventh

Their neighbor’s eleventh

My fifteenth