I would have been smoking then…
Sitting on the curb,
Newly scuffed Fry boots
Resting on the pavement seam
Where the asphalt didn’t quiet cover the
Where there cobbles below?
Helixes of tobacco smoke drifting
Not so sacredly.
And later the glowing butt
Gently burns the fingertips.
At the distant corner
Mongrels cross sniffing in the gutter.
I raise my head and offer a dry whistle
As they scurry just ahead of a
Streetcar sparking to a stop.
I reel back my reality
Just a bit
And count the bills folded and tucked
Into the cellophane of the pack of smokes;
And three fags left
Between now and the Denver dawn.