Portrait Poem by Iman Mersal
Portrait
His heart, attuned to every step I took,
now he can be remembered
only as an old, musty smell.
Maybe he hated my summer shorts,
and my poetry that is empty of music.
But I caught him more than once,
dizzy in the hubbub my friends made,
stealing puffs
from cigarettes they left behind.
Thursday, October 9, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: cigarettes,summer
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8/27/2026 10:41:41 PM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
