I’m standing in the ruin of an old building. It’s an office building. I can tell.
I’m in a shirt and loosened tie standing there among the tilting concrete slabs
and re-bar stabbing out.
Fuck. Everything is bent, broken and twisted.
I’m standing in the wreckage in front of a cigarette machine. Can’t find a quarter.
But I need a cigarette so fucking badly, though I quite so, so long ago.
And then an old man
He punches the glass of the machine again and again with a bloody fist
until the glass cracks and packs of cigarettes tumble
to the tray.
DuMarier. My old brand. Each red pack in a strange configuration.
Packs of 24. Packs of ten. Some tiny packs of five.
Some opened and half empty.
The old man me.