Foreseeable

Linger for a moment and trust
your cigarette. Hasn't its ritual
kept you sacred, through cheap
wine and that tall brunette
down at the Dollar General?
—Forget what she says.
You won't live long enough to need
one of those terrible voice boxes.
Besides, isn't out of smokes
a kind of silence? When I tap
ash from the balcony on Royal
and Orleans I'm saying, I will
always be keen on young breasts.
You've probably said something similar
turning the cherry against the lip
of the curb, or in the bed
of a shell, or along the tongue
of your shoe. And you've said more
and with less. I can see dark breath
rising as though you're looking
for answers. That slow exhale
portends the full scope of your live-to-ride.
I don't need the tarot, or a bloody yolk,
or even Yeats to see your Hierophant
eating bad oysters with sticky fingers.