The First Day Of Spring

We lie back to back. Curtains
Slowly move from the gentle breeze.
The smell of fresh cut grass embraces me;
The neighbor from downstairs went outside with his guitar.
He’ll practice his creation while sitting on the steps
And smoke his cigarette. Again.

It’s hard to move and shut the window down.
It’s hard to leave the freshness and the song
That flows like river in the night from his guitar, his stinky fingers.
It’s hard to leave your back
And walk across the room
Towards the smell of smoke

That I’ve abandoned a half year ago.
It’s hard not to inhale.
And still, I shut the window down.

June 3, 2008