Last Light

He's been trying to quit for weeks

                                                                                                 

 

The air is cold against his cheeks

            As he fumbles for a lighter

            A cigarette is perched perilously

Between two shaking lips

 

            Burst of fire and the taste of smoke curling

around his tongue and drifting lazily up the sky         

 

            Cars beat out their bullhorn war cries

            Even in the depths of winter

            From the alleyway, he can smell

Old oil burning in the kitchen 

            Its spicy scent almost drowns the garbage

 

            If he stares into the smoke, he can see

            A pile of unopened red-marked bills

            Sitting on the kitchen countertop

            That’s also his dinner table

            His double bed is missing its queen

            She hasn’t returned his call in weeks

 

            He has three minutes left in his lunch break

            And his last bit of light between his fingertips

Author's Note

It's hard to quit your only lifeline