a hand-rolled Cuban cigar

riding inside a coffin
with the door closed
sealed tight
i won't be able to see the shooting stars
out at night
rolling down my neighborhood street
for the hundred yard dash
past the neon sign where all the
checks get cashed
there's a line of dread locks
standing heel to toe
but i can't really see
so i just don't know
what's on the marquee
when all the money gets spent
on instant sex and cheaper rent
and a car when its' brakes smoke
dropping a dime until everyone is completely broke
what does it matter?
if there's no one left to flatter
well, i'm not the right driver
for when the going gets tough.
i spied an empty square
where the cops were military rough

i saw that and other hot stuff
like a swirling cloud of gas

which lingered and would not pass!
a statue of Christopher Columbus bit the dust
his head exploding in a ball of busted rust
and it bled 
dripping
slipping on the sorry ass floor
but he died hundreds of years before
behind an old ship captain's door
somewhere in the deepest south
without a parrot on his shoulder

feeling colder
but with a hand-rolled Cuban cigar in his mouth

unlit

packed by a group of men who would not quit

even when the white whistles blew

and the rising sun set in the west

i noticed their smiles and felt blessed

riding inside a coffin
with the door closed
sealed tight;
i won't be able to see the shooting stars
out at night.