Out in the night,
In the sealed evening,
And suddenly up above me
Flashes of ash
In the stagnant heights,
But it’s only the ghosts
Of a lamppost reflecting
From telephone wires
Narrating the tales of their day
As they are lit up.
And in the cold,
This little English pall,
I stall and stand cigarette still
As air leaves
My mouth and folds
Into the history of
Clouds above the mist,
And I’m tapped on the
Shoulder and asked for a light,
Which I don’t have.
And in that stretch,
That century of seconds,
I’m reminded that I was due at
The store for my
Nightly case of etched
Facial lines and
Early morning calls,
And tonight, for the
First time in a week, I may just
Buy some smokes.
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