I’m smoking midnight special
on the night train,
waiting above the market
on a corner on vine
in vain for a lift
beyond the half-dream
of nicotine and wine.
Another puff, another glug,
no other goal
than to drain the pain.
.
Rain streaks the fog in the
cone of a streetlight whose pole
I lean against alone, feet
on the curb, nothing
to disturb the soul, save the spice
of that unattainable plane.
Another glug, another puff
on another link to the chain,
no other goal than
to myself to complain.
Maintain the rhyme, repeat the beat,
hold an old gold inside the mind.
Stain the teeth, cure the lungs,
pickle the brain. Just so
my complaint remains
this refrain: I’m
smoking midnight special
on the night train.
Willie Smith
aiurea press 