Smelling Cigarettes

Very much vodka and too much tequila: those are the ways

I learned to deal.

Across against the light and the sleet scalds my sight, stunned

I stayed put and a billboard truck runs over my foot.

So things are really hopping; and my unemployment’s stopping; and my kitty cat’s copping; and

I need to forget.

So I go to the window and smell a cigarette.

Now I’m in the clutches of my crutches:

I’m laid up, and

I sip from my cup, and

I look outside.

And I see

Christopher

Hyde-who just got divorced, and there’s a restraining order enforced-going in his ex-wife’s garage.

I’m just drunk enough to open the window, yell out gruff: “

Don’t you key that brand-new

Camry.” And he gave me the cursor, “

Damn,” returning to the spot he was, “

Mind your own business you!”

And I wag my finger, “

You’re not doing what you’re supposed to do.”

And then he’s coming toward me, and

I took a swig of my tequila ‘cause it made me feel a little nervous as he started across against the light: but he didn’t look to his right as he didn’t stay put.

And a billboard truck came and ran over his foot.

And the cops responding called out to me, “

Hey is this your cat?” “

Yeah, but sometimes it forgets.

Ah, wait a minute.

I gonna come out there and smell a couple a cigarettes.”

Don’t you hurry-worry with me…