“In hoc signo vinces” I read out loud
then translated for my friends:
“In this sign you will conquer”
from the crest on the red pack of Pall Malls
we all smoked

sitting in the back of Joel Anderson’s ’51 Ford
cutting class again, the probable dropouts
the troubled delinquents, the ones
teachers no longer even looked at

my friends eyed me somewhat stunned
as if I were some sort of magician

“per aspera ad astra,” I went on
Kroner was blowing smoke rings like jellyfish
pulsing toward the headliner, the wavering
coherent circles propelled
upward to splash silently
against the dark interior
the cirrus web stretched and thinned—
it was David’s finest accomplishment

“through hope to the stars” I translated.

“Fuck school,” Giannouni said softly.
“Let’s go to the ocean,” someone chimed.
“Anybody got any gas money?”  

We filled up at the 29 cents a gallon station
near Jiffy Burgers
laughed and fucked off the whole day. 

Coming back we took Sneath Lane
past blinking crosses of the VA cemetery
glowing under the overcast sky of San Bruno.

When Dougie was killed in Vietnam a few years later
people heading back to their cars after the funeral
I wandered through the graves a while
reading inscriptions. Different wars
but most dates carved into them marked
the remains of seventeen to twenty-two year olds. 

We ended up shooting pool
in the back of Herb & Jim’s Smoke Shop
on Main Street.
Padilla broke the rack
so hard the crackling fusillade
may have furrowed even God’s brow
as balls slowed on the felt
to a final click.

Henry set his cigarette on the edge
burn marks there before him
chalked his cue stick 
moved around the table 
all eyes on him. 

As he lined up his shot
his gold cross swung beneath his throat
glinting in the smoke.