Outside is a poem about smoking. In many countries, you have to go outside if you want to smoke. So, you end up in conversations with people you’d never talk to.
Outside – Poem about Smoking
Outside the bar on a winter’s night
I stand with strangers, blow words and smoke.
It matters little we don’t know one another
what binds is the relief you feel when
for a brief moment your world is ok, and
so are you. A sip of wine and a few drags on
you talk wife trouble or politics
between punchlines and soccer scores
or pure simple bullshit.
Your high heel digs into the ground, pinning
you up against the leaden booze in your legs.
Your frozen body leans forward to touch
his chest, his lips soon finding your neck
before you pull away to talk some more.
Someone else steps out into the cold air
just to have a quick cigarette.
I’m on my second, he’s squashing his third.
A salesman, he is, with a wife and three kids,
reasonably happy, he told me. The girl complains,
she can’t get a fellow to go out with her
more than twice. Don’t know what’s wrong with
me, she sounds exasperated. I’d go out with you
the salesman reassures her before returning
to the bar, the noise, the warmth of inside.
My cold hands disappear inside my coat and clasp
my phone which makes me think ET phone home.
But I don’t because you’ve ordered me another drink.
What took you so long, you ask and smile.
Between the sheets and over a glass of water
back home, we talk and we don’t,
I’m glad and close my eyes.