Nikki’s Hopscotch

Pencil-chewing
tic tac tasting for first time
lawns and gasoline
want to wash hands
tic tac pounding
cinnamon fun-gum
stretching
soaring
pleading
and praying
that maybe the Menthol cleanse is a myth
equal opportunity
no back of the that
cancer integration
brands fraternizing at picnics
and gas stations
my baby brand in the window
like a puppy
or unattainable
ex-lover display
and the fucking matches that litter your car
enough to burn a piggie house down
a piggie back ride
on your brother/dad’s back when you’re four
memories tangible
sometimes terrifying
that you stored and stowed in your nicotine library
in five to fifteen minute increments
but the fingers used to fuck/type
caress/clench
no longer smell of London Bridge
ammonia burning
your hair smelling other than junkie
though the strongest you’ve screwed is Nic.
Lose your nictoine baby during coffee/anxiety break takes
your travel companion
Ambien fire-prone cuddle buddy
the kissing replacement commissioned by the Russians
(maybe the French)
he greeted you during asymetrical heart pieces pattering
his smoke the phantom breath
of a loved man lost
and you conversated through nicotine song.
“Listen, bitch, it’s not me it’s you.
Get to steppin’ on, peddlin’ your nicotine screw.
I no longer have use for you”.
Adieu.

© 2009 Kaitlin Hulsy