8760 hours deep

8760 hours deep

By Ibrahim Azam

It’s my cigarette break at work.

The bricks on the wall are chipped, 

graffiti crudely etched onto the walls. 

She’s going out tonight, 

this will be the fifth night in a row she’s out.

Today is Friday. 

With that musky Marlboro mix

soothingly burning my throat,

I send her another empty text.

“Would you like me to pick you up tonight?”

“No, it’s ok. I’ll get home later with a friend.” 

“Ok.” 

That’s all I had. 

“Ok.”

I used to have more to say to her.

What else am I supposed to say now?

Another hit of Marlboro. 

I often smoke alone, as I do so these days with everything else. 

Singular. 

I smash my foot into the chipping brick wall.

The pain shoots through my toe,

into my foot and finishes at my ankle. 

Then, the pain leaves me. 

One last hit of Marlboro, 

because soon I’ll be back at my desk,

with the chipping wood and failing legs. 

Tonight, I’ll go home and read something.

Maybe some other loner has envisioned

my pain already.