smoke screen

i.
i watch alis across the courtyard
she smokes foreign cigarettes
i know she buys
from that shop on
christopher street.

ii.
i see her
peering out her window
that overlooks the common area--
rapt in her examination
of me
of my world,
consumed by the trying
to figure it all out.

iii.
on clear days,
she sits in a wicker chair
then tilts it against the wall
to protect the seat from bad weather.
and on those bad weather days,
she stands straight
in the doorway,
hidden in scarves and an ash grey woolen coat,
arm wrapped ‘round her ribs
supporting the weight
of the cigarette in her opposite hand--
long drag
and the smoke drifts out like an
                                            afterthought.

iv.
i don't like the days of rain
and snow
when i am confined to the doorway--
furtive
as if i were 14
and forced to sneak outside.

v.
in my imagination,
the smoke
carries away her thoughts and ideas
while her mind sifts memories
and dreams.


vi.
i watch her
watching me.
her small mouth moving as she talks
to herself.
both of us:
wondering..wondering...wondering.

vii. 

i find it ironic she won't smoke inside--
protecting her possessions from the
dark sweet stench of those gauloise 
while she fills herself
with its toxins and poisons
and the smoke hovers over her
like a halo

viii.
she’s knocked on my door
peering inside as she asks me
some question about
the rent
or repairs
or complaints about the guy in
10F.
she doesn’t understand
i broke
fell into pieces
let them scatter.
yet
those things upstairs?
to contaminate them is a
sin

ix.
she sits and
smokes and
stares
does she filter
memories
letting her pain act as a
nictitating membrane?

x.
i close my eyes
against the brilliance of her
intense regard,
her overwhelming curiosity
her innocent condemnation
of me.


xi.
there was one time
i saw it all
there on her face;
past and present and
the knowledge her future
was written in
white on white.
she sat still as regret,
while the cigarette burned
down.


xii.
i
huff to myself
annoyed with
her
bothered by
her 
the knowledge
she
is right about
me
and that
i
am full of far too many
things best left unsaid and
i
don't move until
i
feel the heat on my fingers and
i
again retreat.