The guy pretending to fish
and his old lady ask
if I have a cigarette; the
full moon philosopher
convinced my walking stick
was made by David Carradine
air out his feet smoking spice.
I make a mental note
to check on him — from a distance —
in case he gets some fentanyl laced shit
can’t have him go all oak-chested
I don’t carry Narcan anymore
and the state fair makes cops twitchy
more interested in keeping the tourists happy
less so one Kung Fu obsessed skeleton
his skin suit all stretched his eyes
on a different television station
his ears plugged against collective commercials
he doesn’t ask for smokes but somehow
I feel like if I was smoking
he’d tell me
they were rolled by the Marlboro Man