Evidence speckles
the morning coffee table.
A room gone bitter.
A glass with lipstick
drying around the rim.
Ash flakes the carpet and counter
like something the night had choked on
and spit up.
The cedar box sits on the table,
pretty as a coffin
for something that isn\'t dead.
I think I might put a cactus in it.
She bought it after midnight,
sick of finding loose tobacco
around the house.
Back when the bottle
had loosened her tongue
and made a jester out of her principles,
she wanted me to put my tobacco
where she wouldn\'t have to look at it.
Now she\'s asleep,
and the apartment smells
like the very thing
she spent half the night condemning.
She doesn\'t smoke unless she\'s drunk.
I know I\'m a smoker.
I\'ve got worse habits
that could use some attention.
I just wish she wouldn\'t smoke
all my fucking cigarettes
when she\'s drunk.
Outside, winter has bitter teeth.
I put on my coat
and walk for tobacco,
counting the change in my pocket
like a man deciding which part of himself
he can afford to feed.
There are always ways
to make a cigarette
out of nothing.
I grab the discarded butts
from ashtrays by the mall,
get them home, field-strip them,
put the tobacco on some tin foil,
dry it in the oven,
and then use the Yellow Pages
to roll a cigarette.
I know the ritual. I know the bargains.
I\'ve watched cravings dress themselves up
and parade themselves as reasons
to walk straight out the door.
By noon she\'ll say she can\'t stand the smell.
By evening the wine will flow
and the rules will be gone.
I used to think the joke was on her.
Now I wonder how many of us need a belt
before we give ourselves an excuse.