3 E-Books: The Argotist Online

#7
He figures he might as well smoke outside.
My lady, he speaks, doth need no smoke.
But it’s cold and he thinks, who cares?
Each drag mixes with the final beer buzz
in a sweet, maudlin, I’m doing this haze.
Yes, the father smokes, drinks, reveals
the good Irish taste not to hide these things.
Succulent, how hazy his mind is in miasma.
The calendar on the kitchen wall has some
tart on it, stretching her parts like rubber bands.
Maybe she’s the one from his dream? She may
as well have been. He’s a father, he’s past this
stuff. Still, the old hangman’s itch hits him at
such an angle that it’s back to the bathroom.
11