Inconvenience Store

[AisforApple]

My building was on fire whenever I returned from buying cigarettes from the Indian man who owns the convenience store across the street.
He knows every time I cry and every fight I lose and every argument I start,
but he doesn't know my name because he never asks for an ID,
assuming I must be an adult if I make it a regular practice to drunkenly buy cigarettes at four in the morning,
still wearing someone else's coat to stay dry in the downpour that always follows the aftertaste of spite.
The argument - always the same argument about anger and suicide and cheap whiskey and broken lightbulbs -
hushes in the incandescent halls so even the neighbors can hear how much I can't stand the sight of you,
and the convenience store guru especially knows I can't stand the sight of you but that I will continue to love you
if only I can have a cigarette (or three or ten) alone on the sidewalk like a dog tied outside of a restaurant.
He finances my love for you, for $11.28 a pack, good for five late night feuds or maybe just one,
and he knows that if I never smoke again I either know what's good for me
or I've quit smoking.

[heslopian]

The introduction of a person being addressed in line 7 ("sight of you") comes as a bit of a shock; maybe he could be introduced earlier? This is a brilliant poem. It's poignant and flecked with evocative details ("cheap whiskey and broken lightbulbs"). Within this short poem you create a fully realised story about love, endurance, suffering and happiness. In that sense it's like a Bukowski poem: more about narrative than structure. The lines, I think, could be a bit shorter, thus making the poem slightly easier on the eye, but other than that I thoroughly enjoyed this powerful, emotional work. Critique is JMHO, and thank you for the read

[billy]

maybe it needs punctuation in some lines. L2 beinf one of them (that said it's what i think not what i actually know )
it all works so well for me, it's hard not to pick a good line. the narrative is immense with some great phrasing and originality. it could possibly be broken down into smaller lines but i think the testament of this piece is that even with line lengths you use; it still resonates with me the reader.
i'm often giving feedback that requests more brevity but not here, i love the way you pad the poem out. it feels personal to me, even though it's your poem. sorry i can't be more constructive with my reply; i'm assuming aftertaste and lightbulbs are american in the spellings.

thanks for a great read.

My building was on fire whenever I returned from buying cigarettes from the Indian man who owns the convenience store across the street.
He knows every time I cry and every fight I lose and every argument I start,
but he doesn't know my name because he never asks for an ID,
assuming I must be an adult if I make it a regular practice to drunkenly buy cigarettes at four in the morning,
still wearing someone else's coat to stay dry in the downpour that always follows the aftertaste of spite.
The argument - always the same argument about anger and suicide and cheap whiskey and broken lightbulbs -
hushes in the incandescent halls so even the neighbors can hear how much I can't stand the sight of you,
and the convenience store guru especially knows I can't stand the sight of you but that I will continue to love you
if only I can have a cigarette (or three or ten) alone on the sidewalk like a dog tied outside of a restaurant.
He finances my love for you, for $11.28 a pack, good for five late night feuds or maybe just one,
and he knows that if I never smoke again I either know what's good for me
or I've quit smoking.

[philoinlove]

Thank you so much for the read. I really liked your poem. It didnt have a specific structure but it all flowed so well and naturally it didnt need one! I really like your imagery, I could follow the story and see it unfolding. Good job!

[Smiffy]

Enjoyed the read, I'm not sure that line breaks would increase my enjoyment or understanding, a simple story told simply always works for me, nothinjg vague, all out there.
nice one

My building was on fire whenever I returned from buying cigarettes from the Indian man who owns the convenience store across the street.
He knows every time I cry and every fight I lose and every argument I start,
but he doesn't know my name because he never asks for an ID,
assuming I must be an adult if I make it a regular practice to drunkenly buy cigarettes at four in the morning,
still wearing someone else's coat to stay dry in the downpour that always follows the aftertaste of spite.
The argument - always the same argument about anger and suicide and cheap whiskey and broken lightbulbs -
hushes in the incandescent halls so even the neighbors can hear how much I can't stand the sight of you,
and the convenience store guru especially knows I can't stand the sight of you but that I will continue to love you
if only I can have a cigarette (or three or ten) alone on the sidewalk like a dog tied outside of a restaurant.
He finances my love for you, for $11.28 a pack, good for five late night feuds or maybe just one,
and he knows that if I never smoke again I either know what's good for me
or I've quit smoking.

[AisforApple]

Thank you everyone for reading and commenting!