-nothing to confess, with exaltations lifted from A. Ginsberg-

my introduction to cigarette smoking

was initiated through stealth.

we can set the early scene thusly:

there is a function of sorts at our house.

everybody smokes.

the men smoke Camel, Luckies, and Chesterfield.

the women smoke Parliament recessed filters, and filter-tipped Viceroy.

Uncle Joe smokes filter-tipped Viceroy, too, but

I’m too young to realize something’s up with Uncle Joe.

the toilet is refreshed with pine-scented aerosol. 

the kitchen speaks of leftovers and wakes.

the bedrooms address the fascinating stacks of coats and hats

always made ready for departure.

the hallways lead to all places great and small.

the parlor is a goldmine of forbidden smokes.

laid upon the armrest, Joe’s Viceroys are easy pickin’s,—

a soft-pack with three beauties sticking their corky

tongues out from the torn, silvery maw,

ready to be sucked like a french kiss in the sacristy.

               Holy! Holy! Holy!
               Sacristy is Holy!
               Priest is Holy!

               Joe D'Elia is Holy!

Holy is this child of the tenement's holdings!
deceptively he ties the laces of his sneakers, his concentration temporarily

diverted to young cousin Celia’s delicate feet drenched in nylon,

cloaked in slingback pumps. Holy! Holy!

“hey, uncle Joe! I think my father’s calling you.”

and before Joe's ass clears the recliner, fingertips

swifter, surer than any surgeon's, pull the leading Viceroys out and
with a nudge to the pack, con another three to expose themselves.

elapsed time: 3.4 seconds.

“hey! your old man’s not even in the house!” and Uncle Joe

sinks into his recliner complaining about one thing or another

while I'm halfway to my room with my stash.

poor bastard never knew what hit him.

Quequechan, circa 1952