Ringlets of smoke

She said “you’ve changed, I think. maybe
you look older.
No it’s not that.
I don’t know, something.”

She was drinking wine
and i was hitting the tequila hard
trying to poison
the voices telling me
to stop and breathe

She offered her glass
But I wanted
the anger to blend with the swill
and I lifted the bottle like
men in the movies,
even though I wasn’t one

She smoked and
ringlets of poison
waltzed towards heaven,
only to dissolve.

I drank some more.
Maybe I needed to die a little
but I didn’t think so,
I needed to come alive
a little,
to stomp on some feet or
earn morning trophies

She looked away,
finished her cigarette and got another out.
She looked over to the couple next to us,
the guy passed her a lighter.

Cars drove past. People passed on foot.
We would not part
for another hour

On smoking

It’s oddly comforting
When people smoke
In streets, bars, cafes,
Women all hold Slims
between red lips
Because they know
that for the sake of beauty
You cannot give a fuck
and it’s an easy kind of
edge to live on

Men smoke over coffee,
Or on breaks,
A manly sight which says
‘Work has been done’
Or maybe: ‘work will soon
be done when
I’m done with this
here smoking break’

I wish I could still smoke
In a London bar
Then I would order
a sidecar, or an old fashioned
And men would think:
‘He’s on a break
from something important’
or
‘He sure looks like he’s about
to start some important task’

And women would think:
‘He looks so thoughtful;
he must be a poet or
an artist or something, I
should sleep with him’