one of the nice things about quitting smoking is you can still write about smoking but with deeper perspective



He woke up, showered, shaved,

applied gel to his hair, and concluded

that his emotions were beyond

his control.



He was found

by a 46-year old Mexican

man of the maintenance staff,



pink nucleus adrift

in billowing

maroon blister caul,



floating cerulean

in the eye

of the the condominium

association's



pool for residents,



his femoral arteries

sheared,



the backs

of his thighs

laid open,

split



like bread.



The maintenance man

fished a smoke from the

breast pocket of his

green work shirt.



The sun felt warm

working into his scalp

through the thick

burr of his

dark hair.



It was a fine June day,

and he was thankful

for this job,

in spite of the

minor tragedy

which was the vanity

of this death,



one of the several hundred

presently occuring

on the planet.