By Paul Walsh
Even if I quit smoking I could never give up my Zippo.
This battered old engine, reeking of Father’s touch and fossil fuel,
fits in my hand like a cool steel skipping stone.
My thumb flips the lid’s familiar clank
and on the downstroke reignites the first victory over darkness
and the first reassuring words of God.
Copyright Paul Walsh 2010
Paul Walsh and his wife, Valarie, live between Woodinville, WA and Moon Meadow Lane on San Juan Island depending on what week it is. Being the webmaster for almost 20 brain-injury related associations keeps him busy most days. Nights might find him at a telescope imaging the far fuzzies. His first brush with poetry came at the original Nuyorican Poets Café on E. 6th in New York City in the mid 70s but that’s another story and there’s a whole lot of mileage in between.
All work by Paul Walsh
