The taste of pipe tobacco in my mouth
is a let down, to say the least
after walking the dog,
congratulating him on his stream
of well placed piss,
I stood out on the patio
and with one match—a single match
flame was born in the bowel.

I suckled the stem for fifteen minutes
offered my smoke to God
and my neighbors upstairs
but received no word either way,
though I squat down and pretended
I was a native of the land.

Yet I remained numb,
like when I pump gas
and am asleep to the metallic smells,
the spinning cylinders of idle engines,
the ping of the grease smudged register.

My pipe goes out,
Prometheus is out for lunch,
My fifteen minutes are up,
it’s an anti-climatic
“so what?”

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