Smoking isn’t a good habit,
but like every habit, it has it’s culture.
A homeless 16 year old
–was a seventeen year old once, and a fifteen year old after that
–seemed like her age was just always just another fiction.
smokes hand rolled,
–“I asked my mom for help,
–she sent me rolling papers.”
another time, I hear she’s chewin’ nicotine patches,
and tweakin’ on adderall.
–“just came down to record in the chapel,
–the acoustics there are sinful!”
it’s that special time of evening,
after the first beer run,
before shit starts going,
when everyone can still remember,
the band crashed the party,
the drummer thinks he’s tough shit
–“I’m the oldest motherfucker here,
–you’re all kids, you know that?
–what the fuck do you think you kids are doing?”
someone lights a cigarette,
“having a smoke,
want one?”
things get quiet again.
A Zippo’s one of them metal lighters you see in movies,
you flip the lid to suffocate the flame,
and it has this satisfying click/click/click
every time the the fuel’s let into/cut-off from the wick.
what they don’t show in those movies,
is the way they come apart,
lighter slides out of shell,
how you gently tug the wick,
clip off the charred bits,
soak the cotton in fuel,
unscrew the flint and tighten in a new one,
pull the cotton to run a new wick,
a beaten loved Zippo,
is a beaten loved Zippo,
ain’t like those disposables you see crush-trashed streetside.
she’s chain-smokin’ hundreds,
those longs, you know,
talkin’ on and on and on about all she’s worried of,
she’s smokin’ on her back,
beneath a tree of Christmas lights.
leathered caramel men with bulged beer-guts
sit shirtless on their front porches,
puffin’ cheap cigars, Pall Malls, L&Ms,
toss the smelly butts over the rail,
little fireworks sailing, sailing along.
pipe smokin’ is more trouble than it’s worth,
that’s probably why I keep at it.
pack full, press down half-way,
pack full, press down a third,
pack full, burn the layer to heat the tobacco,
press down,
smoke.
puff–puff–puff, not too much,
gotta let the briar wood cool,
wouldn’t want that to crack,
ruin the pipe,
puff–puff–puff.
cool.
empty bowl,
let dry.
separate stem,
run pipe cleaners through stem until they come out clean,
run pipe cleaners along outside of stem until they come off clean,
double pipe cleaner over, insert into stem hole to clean and dislodge,
gently clean inside bowl with pipe cleaner,
scrape caked ash if cake is too thick.
insert stem,
put pipe away.
he’s scroungin’ quarters and dimes,
‘cause he’s gotta have–gotta-gotta have his reds,
Marlboros, Cowboy-Killers.
pays the clerk in coins,
and they don’t think twice,
they see this all the time.
he comes in,
–“hey how yah doin’,
–let me guess, you’re Silvers?
–there’s a whole group of you that comes in Mondays,
–all menthols,
–all two or three packs.
–Guess you have a good weekend.”
she smiles and he’s out the door without a word,
she pockets the change.
there’s a pet-store/cigar shop,
old man puffin’ away in an overstuffed chair.
–“have a look around, let me know if you need anything”
to tell a good cigar, you squeeze, inspect, smell,
but if you’re less discerning,
you can get premium brand factory rejects for about 2-5 dollars,
–“if you’re lookin’ for loose leaf for rolling,
–all I carry is pipe tobacco,
–only difference is the cut,
–I suggest you always buy pipe tobacco,
–it’s cheaper ’cause they don’t tax it as much.”
old retired rich men,
get drunk on golf courses,
red-faced in the afternoon heat,
chewin’ unlit cigars,
and spittin’ in sand-traps.
old retired women smoke spindle thin extra longs,
occasionally they’ve got those cigarette holders.
Co-worker of mine smokes plastic tipped Black and Milds,
he knows the wood-tipped have better flavor,
but he sells the empty tips to passing golfers,
the plastic ones work better as tee protectors.
he’s nervous,
he doesn’t know what she’s going to say when he gets home,
you can hear him rolling the flint backwards in his pocket,
cigarette hangin’ off his lip,
smoke wreathed around his head,
he’s only got another couple months ’til he’s laid off,
choppin’ fire wood to make enough to get by.
he didn’t work long enough to make benefits this year.
he doesn’t know what she’s going to say when he gets home.
she smokes six cigarettes on the way to the theater,
chews three sticks of gum until they lose their flavor,
–“I know I wouldn’t kiss me tastin’ like this”
he’s smokin’ in the early mornin’ light,
dew still hangin’ on the grass,
the smoke rolls between his lips,
and drizzles from his open trach.
this is his second smoke today.
it’s bitter cold,
I’ve got three layers on and I’m still shakin’
but she’s lightin’ one more cigarette,
–“it’s better than writin’ papers.”
broken condoms ‘n Grand Prix butts,
street-cast remnants of a night of beer breath,
choices that were fun,
but not as fun as they could have been.
