Secondhand Smoke 06.03.26 By Kevin R. Mitchell
For a few short years like solitude As the morning darkness lingered Smelling his coffee and cigarettes Before those bustling days began
Like secondhand smoke Before my Brother woke Mom still silent slumbers Mourning a daily wonder What might he say today
I have no memory of lasting dialog He was quiet behind introspection As we sat at the round table there Imprinting something, still remains
Like secondhand smoke Before my Brother woke Mom still silent slumbers Mourning a daily wonder What might he say today
He dressed all-in the same every day Black spit shined shoes reflecting light Polished brass buckle gleaming bright Pressed up sharp, fit, and tailor made
Like secondhand smoke Before my Brother woke Mom still silent slumbers Mourning a daily wonder What might he say today
What he was thinking then, I couldn’t say With no idea what pressures might weigh When that work was done, we would play For a few short years those were the days
Like secondhand smoke Before my Brother woke Mom still silent slumbers Mourning a daily wonder What might he say today