Arm’s Length

He keeps the last
pack he ever bought
in the freezer.
For nineteen years,
through three moves
across two states.
He can still feel
the ache of desire,
pictures in his mind
the lighter in his hand,
the cradle he would make
with his lips.
It’s his way of marking
each night and yet
acknowledging that the
mariner tries to be
aware of the shore
at least as much or more
than he wants
deep waters
beneath the hull.

Of our past,
what do we trust?
There are parts
of ourselves
we keep
at arm’s length,
if only just.