A Newport

I wrote this poem to demonstrate the hopelessness that some people in this world feel. Hope is vital to our survival, second only to food, water, and oxygen. Human beings need it to live. 

A Newport

By Anthony Grimes, Jr.

He flinches every time he puts out his newport cigarette
because it stings to extinguish the only light he’s seen for years
He inhales vigorously hoping that the flaring ember between his fingers
will serve as a signal to the heavens in case the angelic search team has lost his trail
Maybe that’s why he became a chain-smoker
Or perhaps it’s because the smoke billowing from his lips
incites his most desperate fantasy, for he would gladly burn a forest to ashes if it would cause someone to notice him
His prayers are no longer audible
His laments translate into sighs because his tears refuse to flow
He considers every chuckle a praise song
Wondering if God speaks sign language
It used to annoy him whenever the congregation of strangers in the unemployment line
would accidentally nudge him, but now he intentionally rubs his shoulder against theirs
savoring the only physical touch he will feel for days
If the eyes of the woman in the food stamp office could touch
they would give a two punch combination to his jaw–but he would savor that too just to feel something, anything but the cold pavement on which he will sleep tonight
Every morning his neck hairs do yoga extensions
reaching up towards the sun, attempting to escape the shivering blood that rushes through his veins, the product of a heart gone cold
If hope floats then it makes sense that he’s drowning in a sea of bill statements  
although momma taught him much, she never gave him swimming lessons so he sinks
His only life-saver is a crackling voice
the fading memory of his grandma reading the story of Lazarus
and he surmises that if Jesus can raise a man from the dead
then surely he can resurrect this ol’ heart of mine
He stalks children at playgrounds
just to hear them laugh and play
wishing their innocence would infect him
But even more because they remind him of a time before now
A past life when dreams were more than a noun
and more than something he vaguely remembered in the morning
He now realizes that every time he answered the question, “what do you want to be when you grow up?” the answer was irrelevant
the point was that he had an answer
Now he has no answer
His dreams have been reduced to wanting the capacity to dream again
But for now he must work
Dreams won’t pay these bills