Watching Mad Men Makes Me Feel a Little Bit Ill; Like, Physically Ill

Old Blue Eyes had it,

a whimsical masculinity--
lying and believed and rising and obscene—

smoke lifting like prairie kitchen steam,

            ash falling like

Winter on the postwar era.

I could have held a cigar like Hitchcock, or

Milton Berle—phallic, forgiven—

what drifts
is the sense
of self-awareness
blown out in rings
to hang

at arm’s length

a smoking jacket

removed when things got

hot

Oh, and

I never really figured out 

that winking thing