all the world’s a beograd
restaurant & everybody’s
smoking there before &
during after dinner – no

one stops to smell the air
(which i guess is just as well
it’s full of lead besides the
noise) you’ve just got to

write on through it trust
that one day upon your
return you’ll find a poem
in the place of all these

jottings decipher your own
moods in your own hand-
writing discover a mountain
where once there was only smoke