Bug Spray and Cigarettes

Bug Spray and Cigarettes



Crunchy gravel under my
flip flopped feet
seem to know the way,
along yellow drought dried grass
to where you're perched,
all drunk off pitcher beer
and the glory of your first goal.

A bit like a young sultan
only you,
you're sitting on wicker
and bathed by the yellow light
of the beer pong patio.


You smell
like Deep Woods Off
and cigarettes.
You don't know about the grass in your hair.
Or how much tonight really means.

I'm just some girl
who answered her phone.
And love doesn't really exist on a rugby field,
or on the shiny surface of my van
whose alarm you set off
which set me off.
A fit of giggles.
A lean in closer.

Nicotine breath on my neck
with scratchy words
like you're two day old stubble
of teenage boy scrub.

But the nicest touch
on my bottom lip.

Foolish to think I was
in
or on
or somewhere around
love.