Cigar OdeAdam Deutsch
I should probably crack a window but it’s cold out there and I’m damned if I’m going to sit here and freeze while lighting you up. Anyone can tell you, bad boy’ll stink the joint up. They’d be right. You know good and well that you’re a foul little punk bastard. A lanky hood with a blue handball who only stops bouncing it on the stoop to help Momma Balsoalto carry groceries. Come on, boy. We’re going to loiter in the sun. We’re going to linger through the park, backed in the low riding bucket seats twenty miles per hour past picnic tables, part a parade of crossing road geese. It takes forever. We’re chilling too long, and I’m smoked full, wafting down like a silver crinkled balloon after a long day settling into the grass, my green matching lawn. That’s what I get. You’re too much. I skipped lunch to chill with you, bad influence. A killer every time. Not even three-thirty and you’re in the wind, miles from my cold sweat, dried leaf guts pile, pale green. Green.
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