Death of the Marlboro Man

His wounds were sewn with smoke. His coma embraced the smell of suede and anise, cordwood, and all the stars stuck in tar. The prognosis was not good: one moment he’d look sound, the next he’d vaporize. The cowboys gathered round his bedside couldn’t know that just then he was having the sweetest dream; his stitches scarcely twitched to show it. Mist tangled the valley grasses. It nested in his beard and mustache; it permeated his pelt of hair, settling around him like ropes. Those old boys left the room, teary-eyed, switching off the overhead on the way out. From behind the curtain, the nurse spoke. “Let me tell you about my addiction,”she said, patting her book of matches, drying her hands on a side of beef.