Thursday, June 11, 2009


I remember my old Sinatra Zippo
that I picked it up on one of the Vegas
trips that seem now like a figmant.

For years to come, Frankie would
keep me company at the watering
holes and help me look cool
when one of the cupcakes needed a light.

He'd stare at me, smiling,
half-embarassed that I placed him
next to my sweaty Miller Light.
It beckoned me to order a Jack.
He was right. I did him the favor.

Through the years I've come to
understand that it takes a particular
kind of man to do certain things
like wear leather;
sip whiskey;
construct the perfect tie knot;
look without getting noticed;
and yes, work a Zippo.

One night after one too much
petrol, I left without Frank.
The next night I went back
but 'Ol Blue Eyes was gone.
I felt like one of the dames
he'd pat on rear after a day,
month or a year of hey-hey.

I managed to track down the
same Zippo online but it
just wasn't the same.
Frank was gone.
His work was over.
Someone else needed the cool.

I knew now how to sip whiskey.

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