There he was, laid out on the black,
leather couch, potbelly upright;
one arm behind his head and the other
held the cigarette to his lips.
The butt burned bright orange as
he pulled. Belly rising slowly as his lungs filled.
Ashes dropped onto his dingy, old
white t-shirt. From his nostrils and mouth,
the smoke crowded the room. He was
the dragon in his own castle.
On the TV was an episode of
Wheel of Fortune and those eyes
were locked on the screen, though
I knew he was looking at nothing.
YOU ARE READING
Where the Flowers Bloom Unwatered
PoetryA collection of poems written throughout several stages in life, journeying through the human condition through the lens of black girlhood and black womanhood.
