(the first time I accepted a cigarette, he had rolled it
himself, smiling gap-toothed and weary eyed,
naked on the porch.)

tomorrow, a homeless man downtown will *** a smoke
from a lonely drunk fellow who burned his divorce papers
the night before.

(I didn’t want to cough
but it hit like history
biased and bruised.)

thirty years ago my grandfather sat at a typewriter
surrounded in blue vapor waving my young mother in
to ask her what life was like and how he hoped she
wasn’t smoking.

(We wanted to look like a 40’s black and white film, but
there’s nothing
romantic about burnt fingers)

the homeless man chuckles as the drunk fellow
tells his story of burnt agreements and
the way the smoke smelled like his wife’s perfume
on another man’s jacket.
they sing the smokey song
inhale, exhale, laugh. inhale, exhale, sigh.
they shake hands, part ways.

(he laughs when I need
a full cup of water
to rid the webs from my lungs)

mama leans back in her chair
pulls a pack from her pocket
one left.
her father breathes and then it’s time to
sing the smokey song.
inhale, exhale, laugh.  inhale, exhale, sigh.

(I walk to the kitchen
worrying about splinters, black tar
oblivious to passing cars, fathers, the future.
Reach for incense so mother won’t know I’ve been singing the
smoky song, the one where breath resembles
gray satin ribbons,
the one where I
inhale, exhale, laugh. inhale, exhale, sigh.)