He observed. She was smoke
hovering over open mouthed wine glasses
wide rising and a war billowing.
A spiral, dancing in one spot.
Her blue-grey cigarette smoke, blown across cafe tables,
stained him, marked, as she passed over and around.
She was shameless, in speaking his language, in cool menthol breath.
She smudged him sacred, for a few moments.
She is clouding, a mist covering this misery.
Tobacco rode for eight weeks or eight minutes
preening, preparing and cleaning him
rewarding him with enjoying her filthy habits.
He found it curious and odd, how she never
consciously, walked and smoked at the same time, in public.
She explained that would make her look,
too much like a hooker.
She is no longer there, leaving only her scent.
She stomped out in spent ashes, anointing
a broken half clam shell ashtray.
