A Cigarette Smoking Man Stanging By The Window Poem by Greg Like

I'm a Man with
Truth-telling dark eyes

They are clouding over with bleary yellow mist
on the photographs

I've Got lungs with nicotine finished plinth
And my fingers, more humble in style
Despite that, or because of that fact
They are turning out to do such conjures
and participate in the asian shadow theatres,
thanks to them, all the rest of my body
jubilates. And twitches as it should twitch.
Even at nights.
While the veins of my tempus are slowly
Stopping to rock in the rhythm of the far-behind-the-wall music.

A comet has nearly devastated a world
At my neighbors' place, who can't stand
That I'm ventilating the flat because of the cigarette smoke
All the year.
Even in winter.
You can't wash out a sunspot.
A boys mind whose life is dislocated and contorted
Listens to Dylans old song for ever.

But perhaps it wasn't a comet after all, but a hurricane
A rain heavier than all the others.