Tobacco, that is—roll your own.
A pouch was cheap, gummed papers.
Got thirty cigs from a pouch, good
enough taste—no chemicals.
Roll ‘em tight so they’d go out
when you forgot them left
in an ashtray where some head
would think they were a joint
and inhale a surprise—everyone
carried a lighter or matches.
The inside liner of the paper pouch
had silver foil on one side and
you could unfold it and smooth
it out and the white backside
made a fine piece of permanent
parchment for writing poems that
refolded could withstand all the
tribulations of life on the road
stuck in a backpack with what
was left of the rest of your life.