Growling at Passing Hearses

Every time that lighter fires
a lurking
whimper
knocks

“that’s one for you
(arthritic finger
pointing
at the smoke stack
between my frigid lips)
and two for me”

the blade spins
puree
the sting
climbs
up my legs

stomach spinning
grated cheese
confetti
spitting wood pulp
torso turned
to frayed edges
of shag carpet

I can feel it
cigarette starving
shaking under dim street light
I’m ready
the light waning
roaring laughter
simmers
to a malicious chuckle.

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