I never could smell smoke, not on your sighs <br />or greying drifts among the ceiling beams. <br />You'd slip out, say you watched Orion rise <br />or got the mail. And if your finger seams <br /> <br />were daffodiled it was a trick of light. <br />And if your windshield clouded it was dirt <br />from uptown plants. The way you coughed at night? <br />Those damned dust mites make everyone's lungs hurt. <br /> <br />I miss that me. I miss the girl who took <br />artistic lies and built a bright museum- <br />to sit in and admire the slyest rook- <br />now razed to make room for an athenaeum.<br /><br />Julie Bond<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/smokescreen/
