We are in Los Feliz tonight.
outside a crowded bar you stop to light a
smoke
and under a canvas awning
I see the neon light up your right eye.
For a moment I thought maybe we were the
only two people on the planet.
As the wind blew in from
the Santa Ana's pushing the smell of
Oleander and faded, smoky pine,
I balk at the commas of your smile
and  marvel at the disingenuous smoke patterns
that make their way from your teeth
only to be carried away with the
heat of the city night.