Quit

Bones,
angles,
the thinker,
sinking his weathered mast, worn sails
into the concrete sill
that bears his tethered body,

looks into his coals,
breathing old smoke,
longing for those who used to breathe it back.

Spirits fall
with ashes.
He is left to carry the box alone
and wish that cigarettes were chocolate.
He exhales a thought
as his cigarette bounces
against a pitted sidewalk

lands,
ground into a carbon circle
by a black leather sole.

© 2001 J. Scott Franklin