The Spent Cigarette
Between day’s end and night’s revival
when the shoulder drops the hammer
for a moment, a sigh doesn’t cut it
a conversation would only kill it
and no thought and no action is welcome
save for the snug embrace of
the stick in the lips and the flick of the fire.
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Breathe it in, all the way in
as the cars careen to the other’s fury
and every face scowls and each word muffles
just as yesterday, tomorrow, now
but it is no matter now
for the smoke blows out and blurs the horror
and repulsiveness becomes only a shape,
a form behind a curtain drawn
for amusement and not torment
where the ears hear but needn’t listen
where the smells are only of burning
where all the woe of wasted living
stands still
and nobody, nowhere, nothing can bother.
Breathe it out, all the way out
and watch it go-
that ephemeral lover
that saccharine poison,
wondrous quiet in the wake of it all.
Then flick it away for there’s
no other way
and mourn for peace.
The assault on the senses
has returned.
