Smoke break

An old aluminum gate can be found in my friend’s backyard,

a remnant of a chain-link fence that once ran the perimeter of his property.

I love an old gate.

This one stands defiantly open and covered over with tendrils of dead ivy.

Life imitating art, or rather, inanimate life imitating art.

A Chinese moon gate promises transcendence.

My wife inside the house crying, I hope for something of the same

as I pass through my friend’s gate and step into the alley for a cigarette.

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