Strangers,
encircled by a halo of smoke,
stems of nerves ablaze with habit.
I, lungs long filled,
focus on a fledgling:
shaky fingers lift
a stem to parched lips.
The puff, the cough,
the giddy laughter as she holds
smoke captive,
rolls it about in her mouth
only to exhale an opaque cloud.
The nerve-wrecked veteran:
sienna-stained fingers carelessly fling
ashes into an empty soda can.
One stem, two, three...
all burnt to the ****
with just enough fervor
to light the next: chains of valor.
The play-actor: superslims
puffed without purpose.
Tiny manicured fingers hide
the notstem, the habit,
the voidless desire.
The weakling: no will
to purchase the pack,
cowers with her borrowed stem, knows
her next must always be her last,
hopes tomorrow will bring deliverance.
And I, having lived their trials,
accept these strangers,
friends of a common crave.
I set afire my courage
and wave my flag of sweet rebellion:
Satisfied.