30 The Meadow Used to Smoke/Gave Up Smoking Jeffrey H. MacLachlan Soviet poster, 1960s Used To Smoke I resemble dead Abe Lincoln under a harvest moon. This pearl rifle sprays smog rounds without a clip. I fantasize about cometing my truck through Berlin’s Wall in explosions of jackdaw brume. Witnesses glimpse my sullied left elbow out the window and two blazed Belomorkanals fogging like a dual muffler. An East German beauty leaps into my cab and we share thorough kisses that crackle suppressed wildfire. Gave Up Smoking I resemble a baby-faced Malenkov. I don’t ache for smoke I don’t ache for smoke I don’t ache for smoke. My tastebuds and sentences are true. My toothy smile never convinces. I rehearse in the mirror every morning, but I spot thirty-two tiny cigarettes factory sealed. Toddlers squabble at dawn, you’re fine. Wife volcanos tea with molten soil, you’re fine. Highway potholes mangle tires, you’re fine. The diesel scent the diesel scent the diesel scent. I fantasize that trucks around me deliver Belomorkanals and they detonate for cyclical congestion.
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