I have become accustomed
to the way the barks of dogs
envelope me when I am walking
in my decrepit neighborhood
smoking a cigarette.

The sounds, all different, engulf
my senses. It is as though
they know with canine intensity
(they know deep in their teeth)
that the tar smoke smell
is out of place among the
damp trees and trodden flowers.

I have become accustomed
to the way Mrs. Parkinson
(old lady with Parkinson's)
turns her head away while watering
her smiling tulips when I
turn to look at her
looking at me with disapproval.

I have become accustomed
to the burn of the inhale
and flicking the embers on the asphalt
and stomping the finished
smoking stump when the
inches have turned to ashes.

My fingers are yellow and brittle
but I'll never give up the habit
because I like to feel
like a cowboy.