The cigarette is the only thing
That is real
A quivering hand darts, grabs the lighter
Fire.
A breath leaves the cigarette
And a puff of smoke escapes chapped lips
The cigarette is the only thing
That exists
You tap it,
Ridding it of its ashen coat.
It is naked in your hand
Vulnerable.
The cigarette cannot
Fly.
A cloud floats by overhead
As you add another one.
Crossed legs on the park bench notice
Strangers’ glares.
The cigarette is the only thing
That is dying.
And you, the god of medium-sized things,
Sit smoking
In the shade.