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Cosmo, where is your first cigarette?
Ah yes! Trailing smoke out from behind
Your wrist, over your clean cuff, the dark
Outline of your suit jacket. Walk into the
Glare of the stagelights, hang it in a dim
Recess of the club, come forth slowly, sit.
Be at ease in your shirtsleeves, let your
Cigarette mature where you crook it in
Your right hand. Ash at the tip that seems
About to fall—brush it at the lip of glass.
It is morning, there are hours yet, it will
All wait. Allow the chords of the piano
And the frail voice. You are gentle with
Yourself. The curtains will part, she will
Come through, she will move before you
As borne upon a current of the air. Cheap
Veils and too much mascara. Allow her
Tenderness for now. This is but your first 
Cigarette. Later for the first glass. Allow
That the light should fail before you first.