scarlet lipstick on a cigarette end

the last ring of smoke you blew still lingers

 

my mind stands up, walks out, and tosses itself

beneath a 16 wheeler

 

I rest my head against the breast of Jesus

a 3ft china statuette, and swear I hear him whisper

“there are many things a man loses”

 

memories of Sunday school and losing yourself

in parables, in the garden of a vicarage

behind the looming elm tree where we first kissed

it’s all lost —

like a thousand silver coins

my keys

my phone

my zippo with a Hells Angel motif

 

where does the physical go?

 

I rest my head against the breast of Jesus

a 3ft china statuette, and swear I hear him whisper

“maybe it’s piled high in a dimly lit

warehouse, on the shelf, just above the chest freezer

and below the pickling jar”

 

I respond, my lips pressed

against his cold blue tunic 

“maybe it’s not lost at all?”

 

in that coffee-shop

the one with the 3ft china statuette of Jesus

 

I finally met solace

lit another cigarette

and let go

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