An old man sits smoking on the bench, close to me.
He gauges exactly when the smoke hits me in the face;
my eyebrows raise. He watches them.
My sandwich suddenly tastes richer.
oomami I think they call it.
I quit smoking a couple weeks ago...

I'm sure he has a good looking son he never talks to.
(I have skirts I never wear.)
I'm trying to settle down these days.
walk on the sidewalks more.
I've only been drinking half my cup of coffee, Aimee.
And wearing Bandaids on my cuts.

He has a good looking son I've talked to.
A lot.
I think he'll die if he keeps smoking like that.
We all die, and some of us just love the poison in between,
Aimee; I think.
Have a word with me, will you-
in between poisons.