the worst thing is
being drunk

all the lighters gone
dumb

matchbooks
empty

cigarette and cigar stubs
all about

you find a small pack of
matches
with 3 paper
matches

but the matches go
limp against the worn match
cover

shit:
drink without smoke is like
cock without
pussy

you drink some
more
search about

find one paper match of
happiness
carefully scratch it

against the least-worn
empty match
pack

it flares!
you’ve got your
smoke!

you light
up

you flick the match
toward a
tray

it misses

and 
like that…

a flame rises

everything is BURNING
at last!

: an American Express customer
receipt

: some of the empty match
books

: even one of the dead
lighters

the flame whirls and
leaps

then the whole ashtray of
cigarette and cigar stubs
begins to smoke
as if mouths were inhaling
them

you battle the flames with
various and sundry objects
including your
hands

until finally the flame is
gone and there is nothing but
smoke

as again you get that
re-occurring thought: I must be
crazy.

you hear your wife’s
voice:

“Hank, are you all
right?”

she’s on the other side of
the wall in the
bedroom

“oh, I’m fine…”

“I smell smoke… is the house burning
down?”

“just a small fire, Linda…I got
it…go to sleep…”

she is the one who got you
the steel wastebasket
after a similar
occurrence

soon she is asleep
again

and you’re searching

for more
matches.