Thanks to a stripper, a buncher, a roller, and packer

we could smoke these La Zoos while wafting down the Kalamazoo

in a gilded boat. Even the swan wants to puff on the girl dripping with pearls,

parasol perched on her bare shoulder while a dark-skinned girl feeds her fruit,

and another, gowned in blue, plays a lute. Vines and roses curl like smoke.

You could be here too. The vision makes you long for El Smoko,

La Verdo, La Cora, and Miss Kazoo. Spanish-sounding names

slapped on cigars to sell and woo.

Ah, cigarros, thank heaven you’ve wisped your way from Havanna,

to Key West, to Kalamazoo. For twenty years, workers

rolled you out as thick as thumbs.

Remember. Do not inhale: Rather, draw the smoke into the mouth,

swirl the taste of earth, worn leather, and deep woods.

Savor the sweet past and then exhale.

Like cigars, we glow and burn for a long time.

Then, everything turns to ash.