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.