We earned our stripes that night
amid the polka dots and cigarette butts
and other signs of life
clamoring for attention.
Those stripes unfurl in
a smoky ambivalence
leaving tentative finger prints,
another reminder of something
illusory that the wind may dispel
just as easily as fire leaves
an ashy mark on anyone
bold enough to reach.
© 2021 Phillip Knight Scott
Sarah asks us at dVerse Poets Pub to have a conservation with a poem we’ve read. I choose this one by Atticus. I don’t smoke and find inspiration elsewhere, though ultimately it will all blow away in time.