a wet night in brooklyn
smelling some asshole’s cigarette…again
he sits there on the stoop
in front of my bedroom window
like a bad statue, smoking
playing on his cell phone of course
i’ll admit it is raining, sprinkling really
and this is probably the only shelter for a block
but i’m drunk
and i don’t care
it may not have been the best opening salvo
to lean out my window and shout
hey asshole, you and your cigarette
get it the fuck out of here
but the consumption of alcohol
has never blessed me with tact
his response of, it’s a free country, shithead
didn’t surprise me
people find patriotism in the oddest of acts
maybe i shouldn’t have
followed him up with
shithead?
oh, you wanna step, motherfucker? let’s step
and then proceeded to put my shoes on
while calling him a dirty russian
blaming him for the election of 2016
especially since he was already up
and walking away down the street
but…again…patriotism
really
i’m glad my wife was there
to chase me down
just as i was opening the front door
she’s more sensible about these things
and she knows
that at my age
i’ve gone more
from the ass-kicker
to the ass-kicky
it’s just the simple fact of getting older
let’s just go to bed, she said
which seemed a reasonable request
and i kicked my shoes off
and i followed her back down the hallway
the scent of that bastard’s cigarette
still lingering in our room
as cars
and people
and dogs
and my wife’s snores
all permeated the streetlamp night
while i laid there
wide-awake, festering
consumed with violence
but ultimately wondering
was that asshole even russian?
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