Expensive drink date
with a belly full of alcohol
and a pint in her head is gone.
Optimistic kiss good night been replaced
by a cold hard bench,
an empty main street
and a Lucky Strike.
Lucky Strike in hand
talks to me in telepathic memory of an old man,
“I went to war with Lucky Strike.”
Lucky Strike says, “I’m not a flaming teeny bopper Camel,
Marlboro Smoke.
I am nostalgic. I am America’s past.”
I say, “Take me away Lucky Strike.
I want to go to an adventurous land.
I want to flirt with evil Nazi white Anglo German Girls.”
Girls do you feel lucky today?”
Zippo click, light drag
The strike in Lucky Strike is striking me dead.
cough, hack
I don’t taste the luck.
