The stereotypical bear.
Suddenly and with finality He began to see the smoke again. It was healthy, his doctor Had said over their weekly game Of seven card stud. It gave The lungs a sense of reality in a time When he was failing To forget her and the world Of so called love. Today, in fact, he mixed Campari and vodka in a shot Glass, giving it her name. Then waving it in front Of his own troubled eyes, proposed: That time of the month; that Fine red biblical fucking sea. He swallowed it not unlike He had recently swallowed her. Then, with relish, danced In his favorite thick air. He was All over the boulevard as though A mad Russian had gotten drunk In Waterloo, looking For the stereotypical bear To waltz with. He loved His doctor for being kind In this disease; for telling Him the truth as he saw it: That the only way out was lunacy; That the moon prevailed, giving The only light on the situation; That her scent was on its way outside The damaged Milky Way even now and that There would always be smoke in his terror.