Late last night,
A spectral fog
Billowed off the lake,
Clouded down my street.
I thought to grab
My feathered fedora,
Stand, leaning
Under the yellow street light,
Hat pulled down to my brows.
I'd light a plain Phillip Morris,
And with the first pull,
Blow smoke through my nose,
Punctuating each syllable
With blue:
"A cliche is worth a thousand words."