I try to be  a gentleman.

It's 3 AM and I'm at an Arco station
that's more run down and broken
than I am,
putting out the last of my cigarette
on the boots my father gave me
(God knows he hates my smoking).
I stick my hand in my pocket
and finger the dilapidated five dollar bill,
coarse and torn, the way
a smokers lungs must feel,
and knows it's all I have to my name
until whenever the next paycheck comes.
It's as I stumble up to the cashier's desk
to find out if there was a pay phone
that hasn't been broken or stolen
that I see her.
With a face far more arresting than that
on the billboard across the street
(an attempt at marketing
turned to corporate sponsored graffiti)
or than those of the LA Weekly ads strewn on the ground
(Escorts for those who weren't going anywhere in life).
No. With her eyes green like trees
and her hair black like the smog that killed them,
she's far and away one of the most beautiful girls I've ever seen.
Her black Armani overcoat tastefully conceals
a  low cut white blouse.
Her black stockings cling to her legs,
afraid of what might happen to them in the shadows.
Ankle high leather boots clatter on the asphault
like gunshots
as she skitters up to the counter
and I let her go before me.
"Have you got any Camel Lights?"
A voice like polished brass.
The cashier seems unaffected as he asks
"Do you have any ID?"
She shakes her head no
and I can only imagine
how the sun would play with her hair
if it was in the sky.
"Then I can't help you."
But I could.
I walk up to the counter
and repeat her question,
well aware of the gunshots moving farther and farther away.
He takes my ID,
the one with a picture of happier times,
and slowly begins to bag my order.
"Four seventy seven," he asks.
By the time he's given me my change
(Not enough for the phone call I'd forgotten to make)
she is gone
and like the dreams of my childhood,
I know I'll never see her again.
I sit back on the curb and look at all I have left.
Twenty three cents
and a pack of shitty cigarettes.