him a pair of floating lungs
her but a sentient blunt
ceci n’est pas une pipe
he meets her in the club & for days
she pops in everything he says, annoying
his flatmates; his Skype friend, a tobacco monopolist
in a third world country, offers him unlimited access
to cigarette factories oversea. “You don’t
understand,” Floating Lungs says, “I’d never
wish for wishes!” Weekend & he goes back
to the club, sees her, chickens out. “I wish I had
a mouth to suck on her,” he tells his Uber
the following night a dragging digestive system
accompanies him–a cousin on his mother’s side
now he has the guts to chat her up, “Hey, babe!”
“What?”
“Nothing, just–”
“Go ahead.”
“Pardon me?”
“Use your pickup line.”
“Oh, I don’t–”
“Cut to the chase, Romeo.”
“Alright. I was wondering if smoking you would feel
like being in that Robin Williams movie where he dies
& visits a psychedelic afterlife for animals.”
“Ugh!” Blunt says, “You lungs are all the same,
always trying to consume us.” he flies away–
nocturne air filling up his bronchioles, moonshine tears
with time he gets more bitter, a nice guy apologist
he doesn’t even partake in the Legalize It! march
WM is the author of a surreal short story collection, Kennel-born, (Thirty West, July 2018). His work has popped out here and there in Litro, Geometry, and elsewhere. Drop him a line @WillemMyra.
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