Pursuant to the new year, a rude
cigarette lying
out on the sidewalk still burning,
its curled gossamer
floss of smoke, the cherry
on top, so elemental
yet conclusive
as the profligate
ribbon on a gift—which
you've done so little
to deserve,
it unnerves you to accept
such an absolute
surge of dry lust, a sudden kindling
of entitlement
to be—someplace warmer
than this is, at least. And a third
cup of coffee.
