Bite More / Taste Less -------> (Ramblings)

Ramblings of a alleged realist, supposed poet, and apparently ambitious something-or-other.

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.