Iris Poem by Lowe Loup

Whispers of nicotine form
our only conversation
as she sits,
propped up on a mountain of
my goose down,
watching Travis Bickie-
talk to some girl.

I'm on my back
watching cigarette smoke
perform dialogue
on the ceiling's
chipped gray paint.
The thin strip of white linen
Separating her hip,
from my shoulder,
grows as she slips back
into her wrinkled yellow dress.

The clock turns to 2.
The door closes behind her.
I lie still and watch-
her cigarette,
dying in the grimy ashtray
its decaying breath my own-
she’ll cash my check in the morning