Black Beauty

you know you’ve hit a friendly vein
when the familiar instincts begin to ebb and flow
they travel through your body in that porcelain tub
and down your forearm, a slow sparse drip

you shuffle out into the streets paved with wine
just left there turning two nickels into a dime

holding up a lamp post, now flickering the fire
that first cigarette lit like a boardwalk marquee
all alone – thinking of the beauty with long black hair
staring like a spectre, appalling the saints

her fleeting touch and smell linger more than most
it’s just you, the poison and that rusty old lamp post