Sweat
There’s a man sitting snug outside
of Morning Times, smoking a
cigarette. The smoke is rising over him
like the ghost of a child
and he doesn’t taste the
the tinge of salt that lines
his cigarette.
It was left behind by
a twelve year old Guatemalan kid who
picked and dried it in a Carolina field.
The hot smirk of the sun
was nipping at his neck
as he plucked the fresh leaves.
His hands were covered
in sweat and he wept over the tobacco
because he hasn’t seen his sister since
the big black truck.
No, he takes another puff
blows out another ghost
he can’t taste the salt.
