Sticks of Wrath

“Toilet”, he mouthed, over the balloon

heads of patrons, throwing me the sales floor.
I know his excuses: claiming a hyperactive
bladder so he could light up another stick
of wrath, drag on it like a man peeved with
the longer haul of work and day.

Once, in the empty shop, I asked him
what favors he’d found with cigarettes.
“Oh, smoking kakis, you know,” he rasped, sizing
me with that right eye squinter than left.
“It’s a drag to cure my people-anger.”

He flees the shop like a cat on meds.
The sales floor is a sea of creatures
seeking their choice of food. I pat the
stick he’s left, poison-candy in my breast
pocket. I remember sucks, a coughing start, vile
bile of days choked on a lit stick-puff.

The city rolled by like neon tombs in a desert.
Cold clinks of glass, two hackling sips,
the night lonelier than liquor.

My colleague slinks back, a dapper dog.
Sometime in the day he will put his
tail between his legs, sneak out to air
job miseries on a glowing stick.