by thenewgreen

In humanodon's post What are you streaky at he and eightbitsamurai both say they are streaky at writing. Well, here's a challenge for any writer. Sit down and write a poem. Don't think about it. Don't worry about form or grammar (that's right lil and _refugee_), because nobody will be "judging" this. It's just an exercise.

Here's mine:

  How many people here know my name?
  The old Big Boy looks faded and worn
  I don't smoke anymore
  She died three years ago
  But I'll smoke a cigarette in her honor
  What do you mean I can't smoke inside? 
  I told you, she died

  Was the parade always like this
  Men walking dogs and kids on bikes
  Hard candy tossed by women in tights
  I sneak off to the cemetery behind the gazebo
  Where we carved our names
  In the tree by the mill pond
  Where Jamie pooped on the sidewalk 
  and laughed as you passed

  The gravestones are old pre civil war
  Some are so old the grass has grown over 
  We smoked a clove here when we were thirteen
  Passed it around and waited for feelings
  Your fingers touched mine in the passing

  On the bus our legs touched 
  We pretended not to notice
  Walked the tracks to the river
  Where the green patch of grass
  Made us feel grown up and refined
  We lived in that lie 
  Until the train passed by
  Then we hurled rocks at the cars
  and collected our pennies
  Flattened

  I'll smoke a clove now
  And pretend to share it
  Hand it to nobody
  and take the bus alone

  You didn't die, I was kidding
  But you might as well have
  Remember the time we were almost on the Ricky Lake show? 
  That actually happened
  You didn't die
  I did
  How's that for a twist?