"I used to be a poet,"
she says, tapping
a half-empty cigarette
on the edge of the table.
She squints against the gleam of sun
shining through the smoke
of the second cigarette of the morning.
"It all went up in smoke--
like this smoke," she says,
watching the air from her mouth
float up to her eyes
and become part of the atmosphere.

1 comment:

Jef Peeples said...

What is it about us that loves the cigarette as an image. "Presumption" on my site has the same cigarette image without the smoke.