I met a lamppost gargoyle
wrought-iron bristles wreathed his chin.
He was rusted, tarnished, and riddled
with pockmarked bronze and gold skin.
I asked, “What warms the lamppost man?”
And through grit-laced lungs he creaked to me,
“The bitter kiss; a matchstick tan
“Or even better, of a lighter
“A cigarette—
“No thing burns brighter.”