“Ya got cigarettes?” she asks. “Yes,” I say, “I got cigarettes.” “Matches?” she asks. “Enough to burn Rome.” “Whiskey?” “Enough whiskey for a Mississippi River of pain.” “You drunk?” “Not yet.” PainPoetryPoemDrinkingSmokingWhiskeyCigarettesDrowning One S SorrowsDrowning SorrowsThrough The Streets Of Anywhere Author:Charles Bukowski