The storm brings the smell of cigarettes
out of your coat, which I’m wearing
with the collar pulled up against
the side slanting rain, I can smell
you on those nights we drank pitchers
and tapped the cue ball into the corner
pockets just because we could change
the rules of the game and laugh at
the men in flannel shirts holding
their sticks tight in calloused palms
as they eyed us from head to black boots
while we sipped our beer and circled
each other knowing we would end up
tangled in the back seat of your Buick,
the smell of tobacco painted on our scalps
as our fingers, accustomed to the curve
of the frosted mug’s handle, learned again
the landscape of our cool sleek thighs.
