my coffee spoon sits dry beside a dwindling cup
and there's a hint of that distinct Camel smoke
because it salvages the lungs from that Malboro:
the air is moist, the sky violet through the window
of this place, the silent trickling of the pitpat in the streets
where my leather shoes itch to tread—
trade this coffee in for a stemmed glass and some gin,
trade the Camel for one fuller, trade my old beat-up
plastic lighter for one silver, flipped and engraved
with something better. my sleeves are rolled up,
meaning it is my time to put down the spoon and pick up
the night, move my eyes so that widen, drink in
the stars above me, the world below me and all the blackness
in-between. that gin sounds better and better with each gaze
and every inhalation of my now-dying Camel keeps me still;
i can't move from this chair, from this dampness surrounding
my weary head, it's all chilling, it makes me sweat
until my sleeves are too much for me: this Camel is a fire
within me, one easily extinguished with a night's rest
in my bed instead of on the clacking concrete.
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