Habit

by T.E. Loper

Habit

My dad had king-size Kents,
two or three packs a day;
healthy smokes, filtered, he’d say.
At 12 years old, he’d send his only son to run
three blocks to Beck’s, a dollar in hand.

I’d take the change and buy a Tastykake,
a green or red Rat Fink ring,
and a Hi-Flyer balsawood glider.

Tear a hole and gently remove
the delicate, untried wings.
Slide them through the tight slot of the fragile frame.
Anxiously adjust before the first flight,
then release to unknown heights.

We are borne on the breath of time,
too soon, leave the green or red talisman behind.

I close my eyes and watch
as gliders gyre before an infinite sky:
my brittle youth, oblivious youth.
I clearly see that burgeoning blue
bought by a habit,
but not my father’s chair veiled in silver smoke.
I see Mr. Beck’s smile, but not my father’s face;
feel the soft pack like a friendly,
familiar grip, but not my father’s touch;
hear the cellophane crinkling,
but not my father’s laughter;
a glint of sun off the wrapper,
but not the spark in my father’s eyes;
the rise and fall of all those planes,
but not my father falling to the floor.

Ten cents spent on floating joy,
and each dime meant
a week, a month, a year
lost.

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Free Form Poetry Contest contest entry

When I was growing up, you got change back from your dollar when buying a pack of cigarettes. Things cost less then, but there was a hidden price to pay.

(If you're not familiar with them, please Google Tastykakes and Rat Fink rings.)

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Free-form Poetry Contest entry

Habit

by T.E. Loper

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