One is about the man who walks out for a smoke
and is never seen again; we all know that one.
Sad desperadoes and warm beer: three chords
In the head and the notes breaking
tight in the throat. The one

your fingers remember,
when everyone’s gone.

Then there’s the one
where the smoker returns and
you offer your last cigarette

hoping it will be taken, hoping
the other knows, hoping
this is only a story.

The one where everyone
joins in the chorus:
I told you not to I told you no
I told you never I told you so…

There is another, there always is.
Old blue jeans. No money. Late nights.
Jim Beam and occassional solos. Jazz on
and off the beat. Double smoke rings
perfectly formed. Cool.

Ignore it.

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