You that smoked in my car
and felt privileged,
who still
can’t say things that matter.
 
I’m airing you out
with ten minutes spent
knocking snow off a windshield.
The frost air
a drug,
stinging much cleaner than
your coke.
 
The self-proclaimed fake,
reduced to a pile of slush on
the ground.
 
I can’t remember how
you smell.