Tobacco is lingering in my breath
and the feel of music slipped around my mouth.

They taste good together.

Both are stale now,
but the story they tell is worth living.

Work late, drink later, sleep hard,
wake heavy, work again while Sunday sleeps in.

And then the road, long and thick with
other cars living stranger stories.

And then the music, weaving and swelling
and waning and crooning, and pulling strings
of your work ached soul to a perfect pitch.

And between sets the smoke is easy
and full, and dances pretty past your nose and hands.

Inside a song begins as the bowl empties,
and tobacco and music drift together.