She is the last cigarette in a crumpled pack
that you have lost,
and now you have found.
I pull out my lighter
and put the cigarette to my lips.
My hand trembles, the lighter slipping through my grasp.
There’s smoke spreading across the fresh air,
billowing from another smoker’s cigarette.
I smell it.
The smoke engulfs my lungs.
I refuse to cough and I breathe in deep.
My knees begin to bend and I sit down,
on the curb.
But,
I lose my balance,
stumbling,
as though I had the laces on my tennis shoes
tangled,
warped,
an imperfect figure eight,
a dog flap for a rabbit’s ear.