Jacob Louis Moeller
I can see the poet working from the window in my kitchen. He smokes more than he writes. He smokes and he thinks all day and then he falls asleep. I know one day he will be gone. For now he smokes. I do not know why I watch him. I do not write and I only smoke dope. He inhales like my father at the desk his father left him in the house our father has left alone. The ocean scoffs in our direction and we have no response, the poet and I. So we smoke. My dope, his cigarettes. Time is very different here. He watches me smoke. And he writes.