Categories
Poetry

MIDNIGHT SPECIAL

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

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