Temperatures in the teens this morning.
The scent of smoke travels quicker in cold
winter air, there must be a reason for this?
A fifth grade science fact long forgotten.
No one smokes inside their homes anymore.
Peek through the blinds, on my way down
and I see him banging a pack of Marlboros
on the heel of his hand, a custom of many.
Younger ones smack longer, twice as hard
before removing the cellophane wrapper.
Next door, the lady with all the dogs yells
because they’re barking and growling again.
I hear her coughing and know that she must
be fumbling in the pockets of her bathrobe
for the lighter that will start her busy day.
From my kitchen window, I see a big man
in his pajamas, winter coat, and a wool cap.
He puffs away on his Newport, shuffling from
side to side, attempting to keep himself warm.
Days like this must make them think of quitting.