Cigarette Break

ashes crumble into an old dish
they make a suburb of dust

they fall from a black stick
one end fire
one end smeared with pink grease

I'm not a killer
not a saint
but I might be behind the dumpster

blueish violent smoke
drifts deftly into my hair
and stains my teeth with tar.

it's shiver-down-to-your-bones cold
the grass is ice under my bare feet
I didn't want this

but here I am again
surrounded by mountains and smoke.