1618

POEMS ON CIGARETTES

I’ve gotten, you’ll be pleased to know,
Over my notebook fetish. Now I write
Poems on cigarettes, four lines long.
They end where they start, like compliments

*

You want to use lipstick --
Pencil tears the paper
And fountain pens bleed black.
Each poem burns like a kiss

*

The meaning of hurting yourself
Is turning every feeling upside down
What it takes to get me into town
And up on stage to reexplain

*

A friend who didn’t want to quit
Gave me the haiku he’d inked
On hard pack inserts. I still don’t get
Why slap the box into the hand

*

The city doesn’t feel like crying
And the dry cleaners have survived.
Still I find signs saying: Donate
Your butts to Mayor Bloomberg