The Proprietor

 

     I can’t imagine leaving this backroom or the whisper of private addictions in the close assembly. I rise and fall with the bell. The moment of bent indecision is one of my tiny tyrannies. Lost in the taste of words like hale, the hissing pipes have to remind me to take a piss. I have forgotten I lit up another until I feel the smoke lick at my eye. The ash end leans precariously. Remainders never connotes badly for me. Even swift water finds itself diverted into brackish bays, dwelling on what lies out of sight. The flaps of a cardboard box slightly ajar issue as irresistible an invitation as one folded collar pulling away from graceful bones. The best things happen where the light bulbs don’t dress for company. That is why I asked her to come to the back door. Who can resist the chance to light up among the stacks, feeling like a beaded opium whore?