Just One Last Cigarette Poem by David McLansky

The smoke exhaled with my regrets.
A blow of smoke of tired jets
I see it twist and thin expire
In the white smoke cloudy gyre:

I’ll take a puff and ignite the tip
Held within my fingers grip,
Roll the paper as grey clouds boil
Flick the ashes in the foil;

And when this cigarette is done,
I’ll get up and say, “I have to run.”
Step out on the empty street,
Merge with traffic I chance to meet.

As the billows drift and layer
As songs repeat on the record player,
You’ll sit up with your nightgown down
In that dusty room, that one horse town.