An empty packet of Gauloises,
black coffee, a croque monsieur.
An aromatic café
breakfast in the Montmartre.
Later I switch to Camels,
a bumpy ride to seek out a friend
in the sixth arrondissement,
that night I left my Dunhill lighter
on her bedstand.
The cigarette lighter
had value,
I had haggled for it in Malacca,
eventually a young Hindu guy
reluctantly parted with it
as if selling his own grandmother.
Malaysia smoked lucky Strikes,
sold as single sticks,
you could buy them at any age,
they kept them in a glass jar
on the counter like candy.
Our generation thought it
too high a risk to die old,
and yet here we are
still lingering by the La Brea tar pits
looking for smoke signs.
Categories:
bedstand, poetry,
Form: Free verse