All this – of course – was heaven when I smoked.
Standing under the trees,
my sweet asylum,
resourceful and joyful, and dry.
Once – when I smoked that is –
the people coming up the pavement –
people with great lives ahead,
cheered as I stood there.
A Bohemian, they said. Truly.
Notwithstanding the rain
we observe a man with a cigarette.
Like Baudelaire in the suburbs.
Reeking of nicotine.
Awaiting his horse-pulled limousine.
