The Last Joint… © 2006, by Michel A. Di Iorio


«Bridges have broad backs and large bellies! Mine must have washed out, leaving but the loneliest vestiges of disappointment and failure, so I lit up the last joint, thinking of you… »

The matchstick smoke swirls to the light and expires,
taking with it, the moment, to final unrest;
it surrenders its life in a flame of protest,
consuming my soul in the warmth it inspires.

The tormented fumes dance and sway to a beat
that no one else hears in the silence of night.
Despite a succession of tunes to requite,
the silence engendered is soothingly sweet.

«Women are like taxicabs – usually busy and typically late! Mine had other plans, so once I realized I was spending my life alone, I lit up the last joint, thinking of you… »

The fumes work their magic in waves that unfold,
and transport me to places that I’ve never been;
distilled in a bottle of tonicless gin
that empties to chaos in stories untold.

I visit the future but live in the past;
my present is but a distraction in time,
like words to a poem I’ve fashioned to rhyme,
in a song to the ageless, intended to last!

« A last joint is like an old book… when you need an old friend or a comforting shoulder! Well, I guess it was time for both, so I lit up the last joint, thinking of you… »

˜
The Last Joint… © 2006, by Michel A. Di Iorio

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