My Back Yard

 I loved the changes suggested by Twitches, so here’s the revised, more economical version of my poem with better line breaks. For original version, see the bottom of this post.

Thanks, Twitches!

Cigarette smoke wafts through the lobby,

an ashtray gawps on the toilet stall wall.

Europe is no place for a doctor’s daughter

who saw frames of open heart surgery

at the end of Uncle Joe’s home movies. 

A heart throbbing under skin pulled apart

by metal tongs offers no incentive

to smoke, even when followed by little boys

in pajamas opening presents under the tree. 

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ORIGINAL VERSION 

Cigarette smoke wafts through the lobby,

an ashtray gawps on the toilet stall wall.

I’m in Europe.

It’s no place for a doctor’s daughter

who saw frames of open heart surgery

at the end of "Uncle" Joe’s home movies. 

They followed the shots of

little boys in pajamas

opening Christmas presents

under the tree.

A heart throbbing

under skin pulled apart

by metal tongs

offers no incentive to smoke.

PoetryThursday friends, what would it take to convert this poem idea into a true poem? Is there something more you’d like to learn or that you’d like me to describe? Are there lines or images that I should delete? I’m open to your suggestions.

"I’ll feel this when I wake up tomorrow morning."

That’s what I thought as I went through my new exercise regime with my personal trainer this afternoon.

But it hit me sooner than that. I felt it when I started down the stairs outside the drugstore that I visited after the gym. As my knee bent to lower me to the first step, I struggled to turn on my metaphorical brakes. My knee wanted to keep flying forward under the heavy weight of my body. I took a deep breath and pulled myself up. I had to work at each of the twenty or so steps.

Actually, I had felt the strain at the gym, too. My muscles quivered as I moved the free weights.