(Just copping the form here, rather than jacking the language. Ended up kinda sing-songy)
My grandmother's smokes smolder in ashcans,
half soaked in water from a plastic oil pan.
They do not fear the lung or Birmingham steel--
They march single file to a Chevrolet's peal.
My grandmother's dentures click-clack in her mouth,
Smelling of elephants or dogsbreath vermouth.
Once she used a bicuspid for scratchoffs
and slipped them back on her gums when she lost.
My grandmother dies sometimes then revives, and
her smokes stain the tips of her storebought whites.
I don't think she can do it--die.
Something about smoke in a cerulean sky.
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