As the little timer
on my quit smoking clock
flips to 18 hours
I lazily roll a cigarette,
my quit smoking clock
doesn't know if I smoke,
I lean back, taking in
my whole life, squished
to fit this box
charms hang from the light
quivering as if anticipating
some unnatural occurrence
some lightning strike to
pierce through the ceiling,
a sign,
but none comes
so I walk out to light
this hand rolled cigarette
with a
sigh