Rolling its light body between the flat
pads of my left fingers, the cigarette
is trying to be so beautiful that
although the smoke lingers, I can’t keep up.
I practice my smooth draw awkward
as first anything. How to hold it?
When to breathe? I can’t keep the wreath
of smoke from stinging my eyes. Giving up
makes you weak though, that much I know-- and I
haven’t learned to blow ghost rings. So
to use the new body I’m growing in,
master its oversized limbs, I smoke
the rest of the pack in a sitting. Except
one, which I give to a guy who’s quitting.