Thursdays

snuggled into the parking lot
behind our old office building
killing ourselves with a shared smoke,
(i wonder where his lips have been)

a duo of homed hoodlums
we exchange unnecessary excuses for our
bad habits and
revel in the unpleasant nip
of gravel at our toes and
nostalgia at our brains

half a block down a nomadic cluster of
alcohol-laden corner people
flash lighters and
drum on a
broken wheelchair.

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