Guitars and Cigarettes

The flame of a blue Bic
lights the cancer stick;
deep inhales pass the time
exhales into the stale air
make clouds of smoke
the wind steals away.
A snapshot of the only environment relative
to that of a dream life
of busy streets and bohemian melodies
that carry through the air
that passes through my hair
while the old and young
commence by the window
graffitied with ads
of near-fall specials
and laborous patriotic figures
to listen to acoustics
and raw words
that make melodies to evoke senses
and feeling, both real and abstract
only to distract from real life.
As the ember creeps closer
to the Marlboro-marked finish line,
the end of this carcinogenic product
is the end of the dream
as we are awakened by the alarm clock
of a closing verse.
Good morning.