We enter to escape
the sudden hail
and wind stinging
like a thousand
bees before
trailing us through
a jimmied window.
Among the glut
of glass we feel
like citizens
of a giant lens.
Her old man’s war
dented Zippo
is the filament
that exposes
Cuban cigars
trapped in
a goldfish bowl
centered on
a thick Persian rug.
The bottles love
our smoke
no less than
and shoals
adore fog.
Bottles odd, old
and perhaps
home once to
whisky, and beer,
wine and even milk
ditch dreams
of swallowing
schooners or
desperate notes
to imagine us
at their inaugural
openings —
traces of fine
tobacco off
our tasty lips
shining still
with sex.