Middle August

I’ll wait for you. I will. He swears as he sucks
down whiskey. ‘Oh, so sure, so long I guess,’

is what the response bubbles out as. Fine.

It’s a tipsy thing we all do, waiting to die.
I suck down cigarettes, and a clown has died

today. Inclement weather messes up daily action,
the burn beans leave blisters, and no one likes

a jealous Jenny. Or a green Gertrude for that matter.
So chill out and we can still kiss sometime.

Yes, I’ll ash the stick. I’ve never touched tongues
with nicotine in between.

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