Smoke

[rowens]

Building Blocks

Mom worked the evening shift,
a nurse at the hospital.
Dad was traveling by ship,
a Navy Corpsman in Vietnam.

My sister and I fended
for ourselves after school.
Heating our dinners. Homework
was always done first – of course.

Dinner was packaged on foil trays,
and eaten in front of the television.
Wienies and beans. Salisbury steak.
Looney Tunes and Merry Melodies.

I escaped when I could, meeting
friends in the night. Smoking
and talking like the cool kids,
but we didn’t have a chance.

Long ago now; it’s been years
since I’ve spoken to anyone.
I’m good at not knowing
what I have – until I don’t.



Everything here has to be literal and nonpretentious and worth reading.

But

If it's not poetic, it doesn't stand a chance.

So what can you do, if you want to do anything at all to make this:

Literal, nonpretentious, worth reading, poetic, 
in any order you seemingly choose?