I woke up early today
before the house itself
opens its crusty eyes.

Everything is still.
Everything
but me.
I couldn't sit in the quiet
So I went out to the deck
wanting to light a cigar.

I sit in the rocking chair
hunched over and begin to
type.
The urge to write a poem comes
but
there is a thorn on my side
that's keeping
the words hostage.
Is it the stillness
or the fact that
too much happened before bed.
There was one of those arguments
that made me question
more than the relationship
more of my own self
and so many other questions
that burned a hole straight through the sheets.

I still haven't wrapped my mind around it.
I was told to
just
let
it
go.
That I go looking for things in the mud.
Maybe that's where my mind is
left, to rot in the
swamp.
Where poems come to die
emotions die
relationships die
and butts from cigars are left
to sink.

As I descend I catch a glimpse
of what looks like
a cigar that still has
some drags left in it.

I extend my arm out for it.
The stagnant water is up to my neck
and the stench of death
fills my nostrils.
My feet sink
deeper with each
movement I make
trying my best
to make my way to
that precious
smoke.

Finally,
I get to it.
It's damp
but still smokeable.
Taking the plastic end of it
to my lips,
managing to
fumble a lighter out
and light it up.
The cherry burns ashy red
the last pulls of it are spicy
with nicotine which fill my lungs
I enjoy
it still.
Right
to the
very
end.

The plastic tip
has melted
from keeping it light
too long.
I kiss it goodbye
before I toss it
back into the swamp.
Right where I found it
and right
where
I'm leaving this poem.