In this place I felt her coming
Clock-like, ticking, tacking, talking,
Crying in her whining stammer –
A promise broken before its making,
The small of wet-grass on an autumn morning.

They sung a Mass on Sunday last
With Medieval incantation,
Flat in conception, gross in pretension.
She was Christ in an aureole
And I – God the Father.

Now with darkness ring the Church bell
Heralding sinister devotions
Not unlike the pious suctions –
Sweat midst sheets with God embroidered,
We sing chansons of Baudelaire:

Alors, o ma beaute, dites a la vermine
Qui vous manger de baisers,
Que j’ai garde la forme et l’essence divine
De mes amours decomposes!

I will not drink.
It is not worth it.
It is cowardly.

I will be constructive
and read a book.

And smoke a cigar.

She does not care.
She said so.
I know so.
It is so.

So what?

I will read and smoke – it is relaxing.
And gentlemanly. And slightly sad.

I will enjoy this book, and puff.
I will puff and read and learn and not remember.

I do not care if she doesn’t.

I do not care if she doesn’t.

I do NOT care if she doesn’t.

How does it go? Ah yes …..
“A woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a smoke.”