A cigarette smokes itself without flame
but its end still burns, a twig of ash leans
as the smoker does, forward
almost staring also where he does, out
through blank, black eyes
the cigarette’s orange burning in them
to a black, blank place
where maybe even butterflies rest easy
and the hot summer sun, through
forest, grass, and pine greens,
blows a breeze from its bitter but friendly gaze
calmly, bringing to shine the working man’s face
and lips that kiss the cigarette that smokes itself.
His gray hat with thick black band tilts
in the direction of the foreign quiet and
cheekbones intense, also defining themselves
with secret delight as if to say
hello, nice to see you not just my ‘magination.