The Tavern Has WiFi But Doesn’t Stock The Cigarette Machine
The last song of tobacco nostalgia
You could tell what kind of woman she was
From the way she held her cigarette.
You can see what kind of woman she is
By how many likes her photos get.
The kids huddle on the sidewalks thumbing at their glass screens.
The tavern has WiFi but doesn’t stock the cigarette machine.
Deep in a tavern, inhaling as I breath,
With a salacious quip for every question
That cut straight to the heart of my smoke ring.
On a cold Midwestern night.
On a warm Southwestern morning.
There are a million ways to disappear,
you could be a Taoist shape shifter
Or an American tobacco farmer.
Bum a like.
Can I get a square?
Today was a rough one, can I get a share?
Clear the ashtrays and fill the inbox.
Callused fingertips pry like courage poured over rocks.
Have a burn and feel the weight of existence crack the aluminosilicate glass.
Bounce the phone on your bottom lip and swear it’ll be your last.
I got floaters in my eyes and attention deficit,
But I don’t smoke and I hardly miss it.
My fingers smell like Bisphenol A but my ashtrays are clean
And I can’t write another word until somebody gets this glare off of the screen
Scrollin’ for salvation but craving nicotine.
“Siri, where can I find a clean, well lit tavern without a damn TV.”
You could tell what kind of man I was
From the way I smoked my cigarette.
You can see what kind of man I am
By how many shares my writing gets.
