Will my words linger long after I am gone
like the scent of decaying skunk
filling the cabins of passing cars
days after its unfortunate end?
Or will I be just another smoke cloud
dissipating and absorbed into the air,
forgotten as easily as breath
rarely acknowledged inside the lungs?
I never considered the gift of blue sky
until the mountains stayed hidden most afternoons
behind walls of stratus palls and misty fog,
weeks of damp and dreary roadways
leading me to ideas for morose tattoos
and a romanticism for lamp light
with rain pattering the window glass,
complacency, too, is a kind of violence.