More than a few years ago
I hid my mind, and have long since
forgotten where I had put it.

I sat on my softpack and I felt
remorseful pity, because
it really crushed my cigarettes.

And I felt such sympathy for them,
so unable to be used.

Then she stood up and held out her
hand, and I gratefully took the
burning smoke from her fingers.

As I exhaled she grew a beautiful blue
halo of twirling, swirling, tinct
smoke rings.

'My death angel,'
thought I.

Then I ashed it too hard
on the brim of
the ashtray.