Cigarette

An incense under cross to ward off evil, It is a torch; lazy, hazed in half-lit air - A cane, white-brown, supporting you. I’ve watched for years, the gentle sag of flesh around and over the tip, you relax out - mind freed from burden, breathe in, a conclave of convection. The languid face of blurring eases deep thought; An agreement to meet, supervised and held With mutual devotion. Each cough is a war wound, an addiction bond. Each breath a guilty break from reality. Each footstep a ticking clock.