"She Chain Smokes Cigarettes, In a Lawn Chair Down by the River"

                             She chain smokes cigarettes in a lawn-chair down by the river. Sunday humidity, and little gnat flies circling around my dull thwarted head, swamp-like along rural walkways. State park trails unwind throughout the sultry perimeter. Walking like I walk, then gawking like I tend to- She chain smokes cigarettes in a lawn-chair down by the river. Certain thoughts drift up and through my tired cranium, as I walk aside suggested landscapes and foliage. Park benches and sordid families gather in springtime corners there and here, on this particular Sunday,  she chain smokes cigarettes in a lawn chair down by the river.
                             What are the mapped out tendencies of this articulate climate? Who framed the pastel syndicated blueprints? Every thing has come to pass in boring, melodious, rhythms today except her,  hands folded neatly upon her lap, pale thighs crossed showing some leg, in a lawn chair beside a melancholy river. I continue down the dirt brown trail, trying not to think or walk too fast. I have nowhere to go, it is Sunday.
                        I've been beaten up and thrown out. Life has been tough and winded. Nighttime has brutally butchered my soul and stained my soiled trousers again and again. Disheveled and sacrificed, my garments are  worn and withered, my jail house shoes muddy and dusty. Why couldn't things of played out like they were supposed to? Must events always lead to tragic abrupt climaxes? Then again, she appears to have everything figured out, chain smoking cigarettes in a lawn chair down by the river.
                               Illusion and delusion go hand in hand. We all grow tired of rooms, apartments, boarding houses, movie theaters, laundromats, delicatessens, washing our hands, etc. There must be an immeasurable secret kept from the likes of you, and me, or even her- chain smoking cigarettes in a lawn chair down by that damned river.