555's Poem by Jordan Crider

i see a broken man on a crooked stick
holding the hand of his wife thats sick
reach for a half empty packet
strike the match light the cigarette
faint embers eat the tabbaco leaf
smoke rises exhale the healing nicotine.

old veteran walks down the street
clutching crutches that keep him free
a tool, he uses his missing limb
arms stretched out as i pray for him
a handful of song is his only hope
to get him a relaxing smoke

gray gasses fog the view
wipe the depression from your eyes
smash the looking glass, seven years bad luck
no hope in tomorrow's sunrise

construction workers seem to forget
how to work so they hang their hammocks
watch a flood of helments pass
start to drift away as one asks
his friend 'why does life seem like a pointless game?
Never mind, to hell with it, can i borrow a flame? '

take a loooooooong draw
forget your future and cough
clean out the desperate lungs, have a puff
tap the tightly rolled stick
suck in the life, every last bit
then dropp and smother it.