A man smokes a cigarette

on the street corner.

I only see his back,

but his shoulder blades

are sharp

through his thin flannel shirt

as he hunches over

to absorb the heated cloud

of his smoldering nicotine.

 

I breathe out a cloud

now that it’s cold.

Winter.

Seeing our breath

reminds me of

the time we have

left on our clocks.

 

My father is concerned

with his clock.

He should stop smoking.

He says that every day,

I should stop smoking,

with a zippo lit

and a ciggy poised between

his teeth.

 

He should stop, but

he doesn’t huddle around

the burn of his cigarette

like the man on the

street corner.

He lets its heat gnaw

away at itself.

 

Seeing my breath

reminds me of

what we share,

exhales to inhales

and inhales to exhales.

 

Seeing my breath

reminds me of

childhood:

we would bite the

ends off pretzel rods

and pretend to smoke

cigars in the snow.

 

Time lost.

Warmth gone.

The cigarette’s stub drops

from the man’s fingers,

crushed under his heel.

 

The moment,

so small,

is suddenly over.

Life is funny that way.