Basil leaves and cigar smoke,
touch my olfactory bulb,
Harvey Danger's Sitta plays,
explaining I'm not sick, just unwell.

Pool chlorine fragrances,
trigger spinning Rolodex cards,
ejecting a memory of parties past,
I shake the ice in my empty glass.

Sweet and sticky simple syrup,
muddled basil, a pinch of salt,
lemon juice waters the mouth,
the piney taste of Bombay gin.

Shaking now, the sound of ice,
an avalanche of sound and flavor,
now ready to slide into my cup,
refilled, to the night and my chair.

The warp and wrap of leaves,
feel familiar in my hand,
as does the clip of the end,
the flick of a lighter flame.

Couple of Puffs and I enjoy,
Earth and spice notes,
I blow out a cloud of smoke,
quickly carried on the desert breeze.

I lean back in my chair,
another puff or two,
a long sip of basil smash,
and reflect on yesterday and today.