Treasure Island

David McLansky

(5/24/1944 / New York City)

Just One Last Cigarette


The smoke exhaled with my regrets.
I see it twist and thin expire
In the white smoke cloudy gyre:

I’ll take a puff and ignite the tip
Held within my fingers grip,
Roll the paper as grey clouds boil
Flick the ashes in the foil;

And when this cigarette is done,
I’ll get up and say, “I have to run.”
Step out on the empty street,
Merge with traffic I chance to meet.

As the billows drift and layer
As songs repeat on the record player,
You’ll sit up with your nightgown down
In that dusty room, that one horse town.

Submitted: Monday, May 06, 2013
Edited: Tuesday, May 07, 2013

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