Somebody To Smoke With
Michael Botur
I sat the Friday night in a Subaru
in a car park with male ape mates in oversized
XL white t-shirts, sucking on pipes
Just for somebody to smoke with
Did three weeks’ sweaty sunburned work
pushing a post hole borer in the dirt
with an ex-con who shared his pipe,
wet with spit from our lips.
At knock-off we said Fuck it, wiped off our dust, our musk, our smell
with a paint-stiffened towel,
shared a bucket of crunchy KFC motivated by munchies,
washed it down with cans of bourbon cola Cody’s
pleased to have a bro to share a cone and a Family Feast. We
grown men make out like we are staunch, strong, chill, unafraid
like we ain’t at pains to get laid and praised
cause we could get hit by a bus any day
Men in their 30s, 40s, 50s. Men in matching patches, hoodies,
Men in rugby stubbies. Men in cycle-lycra
having mid-life crises.
Men ram-raiding Unichem pharmacies
at 4.15 on a Thursday morning, squealing tyres and guilty pleas
And getting bulldogs and BPs tattooed on our cheeks
Consigning us to a life we can’t come back from,
like tryina climb a hydroslide
All cause we wanted somebody to be a bloke with
To feel less lonely, somebody to smoke with.
