Flooded Engine Poem by John Courtney

it seems I can only
write with pride in
the winter's month,
something in the
cigarette and how
without force it
hardens my year. For
I am soft and it
would seem to need
the cigarette's breath
to keep poking at
nesting ghosts. words
seem to fly out
of hot showers
when I analyze
my pathetic body,
themselves looking
at their pathetic
meanings. perhaps
I've spelled some
of them wrong or
misheard their
gray Latin going
hot down my neck.
words seems to
smack my windshield
when the
smokestack
coughs out
another year.