With work in my past, I sit at a bar,
kissing the whiskey date in my right hand.
A man, as fatigued as me, takes his place
ten paces to my left—the corner seat.
A box is slipped from his jacket pocket,
which contained the well packed words of many lives.
The luckiest one was pulled from its cubical
by a weathered, unsteady hand’s fingers.
Praising his release from prison, with anticipation building.
The light in his face breathed life into him.
The tape—whose cogs turn forward—
plays the cigarette’s song; the cursive words spill out.
Audibly visible, I watched the smoke intrigued.
“Finally, a break from my daily building—
the one who confines my colleagues and me—
now, I can breathe a breath of relief.
“We spend each day waiting to die
never knowing peace, for we know our fates already.
We work each day praying for release,
but family comes first—it’s for them I work.
“We’re always being told we’re unique individuals—
yet we remain clones, individually wrapped.
Seen only as commodities by those who rule.
An invisible hand selects the slaves that be.
A breeze cuts him off, I wait.
“At least my servitude comes to an end,
so soak up what you can, while you can.
I may seem infinitesimal to the likes of you,
but you see your self in me, it’s true.
“I’m you in a minutes long microcosm.
You and I will never know true freedom
because all we’ve ever known has been prisondom.
The only liberties we know are delusions of solitary thought.
“When we’re released from our shackles—
that brief moment before passing—
they say we suffer a blissful ‘death rattle,’
but I say ‘nay, we don’t display disdain for that peaceful sigh.’”
Then, snuffed out in an instant,
the tape recorder ceased its spinning.
I stared waiting to hear more of the smoke’s wisdom;
however, he hadn’t had time for even a “Goodbye, and enjoy life.”
