On Tuesday morning the report said
Los Angeles was beyond the heat wave
the meter had run out
and you turned back to a pack of Camel’s
after avoiding them for seven months and nine days
wreaking of olives and tanqueray
I was without mascara
it had been towed inside of your ’96 Civic
we walked around the morning streets
looking for beer and a way
to go back to before the street cleaners
took away your ’96 Civic and you
lit that first cigarette
We’ll do this right one day,
you said between drags of that first cigarette
I tried to get you to put them away
but we knew it was too late
One day in San Francisco
we were too young to be nostalgic
and yet we looked North
beyond the impound lot
with anticipation towards
milder weather
looked back at the ’96 Civic
being led out past the gate
looked down at the third Camel
between your second and third fingers
with regret I watched it fall to the sidewalk
I wanted to stamp it out
but instead watched the cherry burn
until only the filter remained
and the wind brought it to the space
in between two concrete slabs
we got inside your ’96 Civic
drove South along the freeway
you lit a fourth cigarette
gave a fifth to a homeless man
along the freeway
we listened to wordless music
with windows rolled down
you asked me what I was thinking
thought against telling you I
was already waiting for
cooler weather in San Francisco.