Longing For Absolution

He spent the night seeking the smoke of the lucky for the things once known: the warm bed, the place to shower, the cup of hot coffee and the things unknown. He wandered deeper into the city where the burdens get heavy. He found himself on the empty streets that bled their own longing. For the things once known: the green or brown bottles, the smell of the boiling tar from when he was the roofer in the black shoes drank the cheap wine, wore the pee-soaked pants scavenged food from the garbage bins pushed the woven wire shopping carts from supermarket parking lots until the wheels fell off in the downtown February slush the concrete sidewalks, the sad empty streets the granite walls standing erect to dam the pending flood. And things unknown: The Oval Office furniture the texture of the suit coat of the New York banker having children, tasting caviar hunting the water buffalo in Kenya running the dairy farm cutting the umbilical cord of the first child owning the ranch style home in Wisconsin. On the empty streets: the urban wasteland from which all have fled the imminent disaster. He found the last carton of smokes in the abandoned corner market. He smoked them all one by one. He gazed through the window to see the face of the eternal woman on the billboard of desire. Yes she had her own longing.